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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27544882">your cold bare hands, they hold too tight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/quixxotique'>quixxotique (crownlessliestheking)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Anal Sex, Angst, Banter, Betty Crocker's A+ Parenting, Blood and Gore, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Capitalism, Chapters Tagged for Individual Trigger Warnings, Clowns, Corporate Horror, CrockerCorp Striders: Corporate Sleaze Presidents, Culture Shock, Embedded Images, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated Fic, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inappropriate Use of the White House, Kissing, M/M, Politics, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalances (brief), Quadrant Confusion, Quadrant Vacillation, References to Drugs, Sloppy Makeouts, Smartassery and Sarcasm, Snark, Technically this is a kidswap, Torture, Treason, Troll Romance (Homestuck), Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:21:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>191,135</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27544882</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/quixxotique</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A President and a comedian-turned-Rebellion-leader walk into a bar. Well, not a bar, but it's the President's office. And the President is the only one doing any walking in. It's unclear what the Rebellion leader is actually doing there or how he got in, but if this is a specific joke, there better be one hell of a punchline. </p><p>Entry for the DirkJohn Big Bang 2020, updates on Sundays.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Egbert/Dirk Strider</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>137</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>116</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>DirkJohn Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Art by the wonderful ectobaby, found on both <a href="https://ectoobaby.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/ectobaby/">instagram</a>. Huge shoutout to the very same ectobaby for organizing this event, I had a BLAST, even if this fic spiralled way out of control!</p><p>Now, for the fic- buckle up and mind the tags. I cannot stress this enough, <em>mind the tags</em>. Especially especially the explicit one. I will also include chapter-specific trigger warnings for each one, along with *** denoting scenes that contain them if you'd like to skip. Feel free to either message me or drop a comment if you'd like a summary of the events. And if I've missed something that's upsetting in the chapter warnings, let me know in the comments so I can fix that ASAP.</p><p>Also, I'm going to try to update every Sunday.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Uh oh, here we go.</p><p>The fic notes pretty much say it all.</p><p>Content warnings for this chapter are pretty much just sex, with the explicit scene taking place between the ***'s. A knife appears, no one gets hurt, and there's some threats.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p><hr/>
<p>There's someone in his office, a broad-shouldered silhouette perched just so in the only good chair in the building. Or one of the many bad ones, assuming his brother has successfully run the gauntlet and swapped them out again; Dirk isn't quite sure. The new window locks ought to have stymied Dave, but then again, very little gets in his way when he's determined to have something. The something, in this case, being Dirk's chair. As if he doesn't have a monstrosity sitting hideously in his own...lair. Office is too kind a word to use for that particular den of sin.</p>
<p>"Comfortable?" he asks archly as he turns the light on. It illuminates- precisely who he might have expected it to. It certainly wouldn't have been English; intelligence of the accurate kind informed him that the presumptive heir to SkaiaNet was currently somewhere in the wilds of Austrailia. Concerning, given the pitiful headway they've made there, but nothing that Dirk will bother himself too much about just yet, given how easy it would be to get <em>that</em> problem under his thumb. Presuming it has the nerve or intelligence to become a problem at all.</p>
<p>"Nope!" comes the answer, cheerful and irreverent as ever, and it grates terribly on his nerves as it always does. It's paired with a beaming smile, all buck-teeth and too-blue eyes and messy, windswept hair. The window locks have failed in their duty, but Dirk can't be too upset about it, given the complete lack of window and very obvious presence of broken glass and metal shards scattered on his carpet. "This chair sucks, how do you even manage it? Ugh, it's almost enough to make me feel bad for you. But only almost, before you go getting any ideas, Mr. Crocker."</p>
<p>Looks like Dave's gotten to his chair after all. Damn. But unfortunately, there's more pressing concerns to deal with right now.</p>
<p>"I was just about to say you ought to be careful about that pity, else I'd think you were proposing something, Mr. Egbert," Dirk says instead. His fingers wrap around the hilt of his katana. Just because John Egbert, moderately successful comedian with a penchant for terrible jokes, and personal pain in Dirk’s ass, is sitting comfortably and smiling, white teeth against brown skin and the corner of his eyes crinkled to make it <em>extra</em> genuine, doesn’t mean that Dirk believes he’s here for any good reason.</p>
<p>In fact, if he’s fortunate, the reason is going to be downright terrible.</p>
<p>“You didn’t even let me say I was expecting you.”</p>
<p>“It’s my office. Who else would be in here?”</p>
<p>“…I was still expecting you,” John repeats, with the petulant tone of a man stymied. Excellent.</p>
<p>“Punctuality isn’t my strong suit,” Dirk says. A lie, as it happens; he’s very aware of the consequences of being late, and it’s hardly polite to keep someone waiting when it doesn’t suit his own agenda to make them squirm in discomfort.</p>
<p>“Wow, <em>the</em> Dirk Crocker admitting there’s something he’s not good at? Is this a body snatchers kind of deal? Are you a clone? Well- actually, that’s not a good metric because you’re Crocker spawn, you probably are, but say something only the real Dirk would,” his unwelcome guest says, clearly having recovered from the initial mistake. He’s always bounced back remarkably fast.</p>
<p>“Once more, your terrible cultural references are going to be entirely ignored,” Dirk says. His eyes are still on the broken glass. It’s only a front, really; he knows better than to stop watching this particular enemy, but he also knows it’ll wind said enemy up even more if Dirk pretends not to pay attention to him. Admittedly, it’s an old trick he mostly uses when Dave is having one of his tantrums, but it’s pleasing to see that it’s applicable elsewhere. “You’ve made an awful mess, you know that? The staff are going to complain about having to clean it.”</p>
<p>“Ooh, look at you, Mr. Crocker, worrying about what the <em>staff</em> think.” Those bright blue eyes roll, the gesture exaggerated. It’s one that Dirk recognizes from Egbert’s shows- which of course he’s watched, despite it being banned. Mother had wanted him to see what it was they were up against, and while Dirk will concede that Egbert in particular has been more pernicious than expected (the shattered window a case in point for that), he’ll also be the first to say that as far as threats go, he’s manageable.</p>
<p>“It’s common courtesy. Besides, glazing’s a hassle to put in, and it’s meant to rain later. My books will be ruined.” There’s a touch of real inconvenience in that- all his appliances maybe be waterproofed (and, at this point, Egbert-proofed), but the papers and reading material currently in his office are most certainly not. “You’re lucky there’s no cameras in here.”</p>
<p>“Am I?” Egbert asks. He’d feign ignorance well, if it wasn’t for the grin stretching across his face. “Or is it just a <em>real</em> oversight on your part. Ha, over<em>sight</em>.”</p>
<p>“A real knee-slapper,” Dirk says, his face entirely even. It’s not the worst joke he’s ever heard- he’s been to his fair share of Juggalo executions, after all-, but it comes close. “They’re honking in the front yard right now in sheer, ecstatic appreciation. Careful, bro, if you keep dropping those hilarious one-liners, the Dark Carnival will come knocking.”</p>
<p>“Let them! I’m not scared of clowns,” Egbert says, his smile still wide. Dirk’s almost envious of it for a second; he’s certainly never affected a false smile that convincing, much to Mother’s disapproval. Thankfully, he’s been able to settle into a quieter role, and in his current position, he only needs the polite, distant smiles he’s perfected.</p>
<p>“Let me guess, you aren’t scared of anything?”</p>
<p>“Hmm. That seems like a recipe for disaster, you know. Like, if I say I’m scared of spiders, the next time I come in here, the room’s just absolutely full of them. To which I say- anyone would be freaked out by a room full of spiders.” Egbert is clearly having him on, and Dirk isn’t going to rise to the bait.</p>
<p>“What I’m hearing is ‘please, Mr. Crocker, fill this room with spiders.’,” he says, deadpan. “Which I can easily oblige you. They’re quite useful, spiders. Kill flies and all that. An important part of the ecosystem.”</p>
<p>“Because you’re such an environmentalist?”</p>
<p>Egbert has him there, although Dirk refuses to admit it.</p>
<p>“I never said they were <em>native </em>spiders,” he says instead.</p>
<p>“Great. The alien invasion has brought with it alien spiders, like the whole- fish alien and clown alien things weren’t good enough,” Egbert grumbles. Dirk resists the urge to roll his eyes.</p>
<p>“If you’re scared of fish and clowns, then I don’t think you stand a chance against even Earth spiders,” he points out evenly. “Hell, you wouldn’t stand a chance against the lusii spiders, either.”</p>
<p>“What, those- giant ones?” Egbert’s whole face scrunches up at the thought. “Absolutely not. Keep those away from me, very far, unless you have a huge mason jar or a nuclear bomb available to get rid of them, thanks.”</p>
<p>“Seems like overkill for an arachnid.”</p>
<p>“It’s a totally justifiable response for a huge spider that could rip my head off! Haven’t you seen that part of the Hobbit movies? I don’t want to be some poor fucker in a web getting drained dry, Crocker, it’s not happening.” He shakes his head vehemently for good measure. It almost makes Dirk smile.</p>
<p>“They should nominate you for an Oscar,” is what Dirk tells him instead. “That was a pretty bit of acting.”</p>
<p>Egbert simply sticks his tongue out.</p>
<p>“Mature,” Dirk says. “You’re twenty-eight and you still think that’s an adroit rejoinder? You can do better than that.”</p>
<p>And he can, Dirk knows. Manageable or not, funny or not, Egbert has a terribly sharp tongue when he’s willing to let it slip out. Dirk suspects that he’s better at most than coaxing out those fits of temper, especially from someone who presents such a…jovial persona, otherwise. It’s an interesting dichotomy, one he can’t help but want to pick apart.</p>
<p>“You should be careful! That almost sounded like encouragement, you know,” Egbert says, wiggling a finger at him. Dirk resists the urge to flash-step over there and bite it; that’s juvenile, and he’s long grown-out of such stupidity. Now he has a much better idea of where to put his teeth to better use.</p>
<p>“I’d never encourage you,” Dirk says, straight-faced and bland as he can manage. He tilts his head towards the door, though. “But I do know that you’re here for a reason, and I suggest we be prompt about getting to it. Business first, after all.”</p>
<p>“Oh, someone is very efficient all of a sudden.” Egbert makes absolutely no attempt to move, and instead slouches lower in Dirk’s chair. He even dares to put his feet on Dirk’s desk, no doubt muddying the papers there, because he would absolutely have found mud to slather on if it meant specifically getting it all over Dirk’s office. The bastard. Dirk would appreciate the artistry of it, if there were any intentional artistry to be found.</p>
<p>“I’m always efficient,” Dirk says smoothly. “That’s why things get done around here, don’t you know? You can’t put the clowns in charge of anything, and god forbid <em>Dave</em> ever do anything that isn’t an elaborate publicity stunt.”</p>
<p>“Trouble in paradise?” Egbert asks, with a grin.</p>
<p>“We are the trouble, paradise had better watch its back,” Dirk quips back, easily.</p>
<p>“Paradise is coming to get you,” Egbert says, serious for a second, and Dirk knows he hasn’t quite gotten the joke. No matter, he isn’t meant to.</p>
<p>“Interesting how you equate the previous state of affairs with paradise, when you certainly aren’t old enough to remember anything before Mother was here. Her influence was well-established even before the rebranding,” Dirk points out, smoothly. “A shame you’ve picked the wrong side, I have to admit.”</p>
<p>And, it is, really. Egbert is not a threat on his own, but as part of a group, he is dangerously charismatic. It would be a useful skill to have on their side. But then again, Dave has enough charisma for anyone, and his dangerous brand of magnetism doesn’t leave room for another with the same skill set.</p>
<p>“At least I can sleep at night knowing I’m doing the right thing,” Egbert says, damnably sure of himself as always. “Any nightmares I’ve got? You cause.”</p>
<p>“Am I meant to be offended by that?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Or are you expecting to hear that you feature in my nightmares, too?”</p>
<p>“I think at this point, I should,” Egbert says. It’s too easy, really; he walks into it sometimes. Dirk just smirks his way.</p>
<p>“Oh, but I think the dreams of mine you want to get into are very different,” he tells the other man, and doesn’t that just shut him up perfectly? It also makes him go a very charming shade of red. Dirk would take a picture to preserve the memory of the expression on Egbert’s face, dumbfounded, if he wasn’t aware it was an absolutely terrible idea to have proof of their liaisons lying around.</p>
<p>He gives it two seconds to simmer before offering Egbert his very best smirk.</p>
<p>“In any event,” he says smoothly. “We ought to relocate.” He straightens up, and watches Egbert do nothing other than slouch in his chair. Joke’s on him, Dave always replaces it with something that has no lumbar support whatsoever. He’ll be sore tomorrow, and not even in a fun way.</p>
<p>“Well?” Dirk asks, gesturing at the side door as he always does. “Are you coming, or aren’t you?”</p>
<p>Egbert snickers, as <em>he</em> always does, and gets up. “Duh.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t bother to hide his smugness as he crosses the room and unlocks it. This is, technically, not a hallway that he is meant to have access to. But it does lead to one of the rooms in his apartments here that he regularly strips clean of cameras and microphones (though he can’t always get at the ones in the walls, but it’s easy enough to jam them), and that’s the safest thing either of them can manage. Certainly, it’s better than having Egbert in his <em>own</em> bed, no matter how appealing the thought may be sometimes. It’s nonsense, nothing but a sentiment brought on by endorphins, when his brain decides it will be useless mush.</p>
<p>Egbert enters the hallway ahead of him, and Dirk swings the door shut and locks it neatly behind them. He already knows the way; they’ve done this dance often enough. That doesn’t stop him from playfully swatting at Egbert’s ass, though. It’s surprisingly plush. Seems unfair, that someone who’s such a pain in <em>Dirk’s</em> ass should have a nice one of his own.</p>
<p>“Hey-!” Egbert yelps. Dirk simply offers his third most innocent smile in return. It’s always amusing to see a grown man fluster and startle at a simple touch, even over clothes. And especially when Dirk’s done a whole lot worse to him, with far less clothes in the way.</p>
<p>“You really do complain so much,” Dirk says, a smirk on his face. “What is that quote? ‘Tis but a flesh wound?”</p>
<p>“Uh, no,” Egbert says, bright and smug enough that Dirk nearly pauses.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“That’s not the quote,” he points out. Oh, no. “The Monty Python one has ‘’tis but a scratch’, when he gets his first arm chopped off. Then he goes ‘it’s just a flesh wound’, before kicking Arthur in the head. The original ‘tis but a flesh wound’ comes from The Goon Show earlier, which was apparently a really big influence, for Monty Python?”</p>
<p>“What the hell is Monty Python?” Dirk says, after a second. He doesn’t <em>like</em> showing ignorance in front of Egbert, he really doesn’t, but to be told he’s misquoting something and then to find out that actually, he isn’t, is a wild ride. “I’m talking about the joke on the Internet.”</p>
<p>“It- the, the meme <em>comes</em> from that,” Egbert’s floundering now. Well, at least that’s one good thing about this sorry mess of a conversation. Dirk’s brows draw together. “What do you mean you don’t know what Monty Python is?”</p>
<p>“Uh. Exactly what I said? I’m sure I’ve heard <em>of</em> it,” he backpedals, as he presses one finger to the arm of his shades so he can look it up, as subtly as possible. A subtle glance reveals that he’s fooling absolutely no one. He puts it on the agenda for later instead, for after Egbert has left. “We don’t all have an encyclopedic knowledge of obscure…comedy bits.”</p>
<p>This had better be a comedy bit, is all Dirk is saying.</p>
<p>“It’s not <em>encyclopedic</em>.” Egbert is rolling his eyes so hard they’re going to fall out of his head, if he isn’t careful. “It’s literally my job. You know that, right? I’d have been chilling, doing comedy, telling jokes, if it wasn’t for your whole fucked-up capitalism thing. Now it’s so fucked up that my real job is somehow my side gig.”</p>
<p>“I think you’re committing several logical fallacies with the implication that I invented late-stage capitalism,” he remarks dryly. It’s true, for a certain value of the truth- he didn’t invent anything, but Mother certainly perfected it, and brought it into an entirely new (and much better) direction. She’s talented at dismantling things and crafting them anew for her purposes.</p>
<p>“Bluh, what<em>ever</em>,” Egbert waves a hand dismissively, because of course he’s not going to listen to any perfectly logical points that Dirk makes. If he were persuadable, he would be working for Dirk right now. But it’s probably for the best that he isn’t; there are terribly strict laws about workplace relationships, and Dirk has no desire to make a trip down to HR. “You know what I mean. Your company is evil.”</p>
<p>And so are you, comes the unspoken implication. Dirk is tempted to rise to the debate, but this isn’t a fight, and he’s no obligation to try to convince the deluded of anything.</p>
<p>Instead, he just hums a dismissal, like it’s not even worth considering Egbert’s perspective, and that ought to get his blood boiling as well as anything else. Dirk knows the type of man John Egbert is, and it isn’t one that can stand being ignored when he thinks he’s right.</p>
<p>He can practically hear the other’s teeth grinding against one another, and Dirk allows himself a small, pleased smile, safely hidden.</p>
<p>“So, other than failing to provide any real information to your sorry excuse for a Resistance,” he drawls out, “I assume you have ulterior motives in coming here today?”</p>
<p>They’re at the end of the hallway, and Dirk slips in front of Egbert to enter the room. It’s pristine, untouched just as they last left it, and he takes a moment to access the camera feed from his shades and ensure that this is excluded. Privacy is incredibly difficult to come by, and secluded places for affairs such as this rarely stay so for long, especially with Dave around. It’s somewhat of a miracle that it’s remained undiscovered so far, but Dirk is content to accept that while taking the utmost precautions to keep it that way.</p>
<p>“What, me?” Egbert asks. He’s smiling broadly, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that suggests a joke, suggests intimacy and friendliness and-</p>
<p>Well, that’s his job, after all. It’s as fake as anything, and Dirk isn’t going to be taken in by it like some sort of captive audience member. He knows better. More to the point, he knows exactly what this is.</p>
<p>“Yes, you,” he repeats, mocking. “I find it deeply entertaining how averse you are to actually stating the reasons why you’re here, Mr. Egbert. Is it the shame? I can assure you, you aren’t the one who’s lowering your standards here.”</p>
<p>He does gesture the man forward, though. The room’s safe, it ought to be fine. Egbert gets the message, perhaps a little too well, since his hands make themselves at home on Dirk’s hips. Bold, but he appreciates that.</p>
<p>“You’re such a cold fish I’m amazed you even <em>have </em>standards,” Egbert murmurs, as if it’s a grand triumph of a comeback. Ridiculous.</p>
<p>“Oh, no. My feelings. You’ve hurt them. I’d perish, but I’d rather not give you the satisfaction.” Dirk’s own arms wind up around Egbert’s shoulders. He’s got two inches on Dirk, which Dirk absolutely despises, and which Egbert refuses to stop being smug about. “Trust me, Mr. Egbert,” Dirk makes sure to whisper right up against his lip, practically sharing breath now. It makes him want to wrap his fingers around Egbert’s neck and squeeze so they’re not. As is, he just lets one hand slide up into the curls at the nape of his neck, too-soft for someone who’s this sloppy with their appearance. “There are absolutely none of my standards you even come <em>close</em> to meeting. You just look good with my dick down your throat.”</p>
<p>Egbert thankfully doesn’t even try to respond to that, but Dirk can still see the bob of his throat, the way his face heats into a darker flush. Egbert might like to play the righteous hero card all too often for Dirk’s liking, but at least he knows there is absolutely nothing righteous or heroic about what they do. Not even close.</p>
<p>He closes the scant distance between with a kiss that’s feather-light at first, then another, and then another until Egbert’s mouth goes slack beneath his own in invitation, and Dirk can press that much closer, his tongue easily sliding into the other’s mouth. He tastes like mint; Dirk finds the thought of him brushing his teeth clean specifically for this all kinds of amusing. It’s cute, how Egbert tries to please when he so obviously pretends he doesn’t.</p>
<p>Dirk pulls away a fraction of a second later, too soon for his own liking, but just at the right time where he can see Egbert lean into it for a fraction of a second before he catches himself. The other’s still breathing heavy. Good.</p>
<p>Dirk takes a single step back, withdrawing entirely, and favors Egbert with his third most coy look, which is coincidentally his fourth smuggest.</p>
<p>“Perhaps we should relocate to the bed?” he suggests, his eyebrow arching just so. “And of course I’ll need to get undressed. You’ve got a terrible habit of trying to stain my clothes. You should know better than to leave any body fluids around here.”</p>
<p>That threat is just for show on Dirk’s part- it’s difficult, after all, to engage in any kind of sexual activity with someone you’re concerned is going to steal your DNA. But on the part of anyone who might notice such stains on his clothes and find them objectionable- idle threat it is not.</p>
<p>“You know better than to let me,” Egbert counters, unbearably smug and apparently having recovered from earlier. He pushes himself up off the wall, and strides over to the bed to sit down, challenge radiating from him despite how casual his posture is. That’s one of Dirk’s favorite things about him, that innate authority he can flick on and off like a switch.</p>
<p>He loosens the knot on his tie- Eldredge, of course, he only uses the Trinity for special occasions- and lets the red silk pool to the floor. The only gesture of carelessness he’ll allow; the rest of his clothes need to be pristine after this. The weight of Egbert’s gaze on him is a burden he’s more than willing to bear, and Dirk watches the tip of his tongue trace almost absently against the seam of his lips.</p>
<p>Oh, this is going to be fun.</p><hr/>
<p>
  <strong>***</strong>
</p>
<p>John watches him strip down, not bothering to hide the want in his gaze. Crocker knows he wants this, he knows Crocker wants him, they’re in the same boat of bad choices and they’re both aware that it’s probably sinking fast. But looking at deft fingers neatly undo what John thinks is a way too complicated knot on his red silk tie, then shrug off an oilslick black jacket and the offendingly red vest underneath, layers of clothes being shed and neatly folded until it’s all skin and no cloth and John itches to reach over and touch.</p>
<p>So he does, letting his hands smooth down over pale, freckled skin. He needs more sun, John’s pretty sure. He’s got no idea where Crocker would even go to get it- this one probably has never taken a vacation in his entire life, for all that he’s a spoiled fucking brat.</p>
<p>…Intent on killing the world. That part’s important too. He doesn’t deserve a vacation.</p>
<p>His lips skim along Crocker’s shoulder, and John watches him fold his pants- and even his underwear, what a huge dork- neatly.</p>
<p>Dirk’s gloves don’t come off, not for this. His shades don’t either, although he has to fend off plenty attempts from John to try and snatch them- some more underhanded than others.</p>
<p>“For someone who claims to have the moral high ground, you certainly aren’t above thievery,” he snipes, easily fending off a hand sneaking around the back of his head. Jeez, does he have eyes there, or something? Well. John’s fairly sure he doesn’t- he’d have noticed that, at least.</p>
<p>“Think of me as a Robin Hood, then,” John suggests, as charming as he can manage. “A thief with plenty of honor. Stealing from the rich to give to the poor, toppling evil baking empires, stuff like that. The usual.”</p>
<p>“Sleeping with those affiliated with evil baking empires?” Crocker asks, cocking an eyebrow.</p>
<p>John cheerfully ignores his own hypocrisy in favor of dragging the other in for a kiss- a real one, that is, all open-mouthed and messy the way he likes and Crocker despises. That just makes it so much better when he gets coaxed into responding, though. Slim fingers reach up to curl tight in John’s hair, and Crocker kisses nothing like John might have expected, before. For one, he’s got to be real careful about those teeth. But he doesn’t mind that.</p>
<p>Jeez, the first time it happened, he’d been so surprised he just stood there with his mouth hanging open like some kind of idiot. He’s still trying to live that down.</p>
<p>But now? Now he’s more than happy to get the other man to kiss him all demanding and imperious, to coax those long legs up against his waist if he can manage. So what if he can’t manage it <em>often</em>? He thinks that managing it at all is pretty impressive, thank you very much.</p>
<p>John’s hands dip lower, and his fingers dig into a very pert ass underneath those stupidly tailored pants, and Crocker’s mouth goes slack against his own for just a second. John relishes it, takes it as a chance to lick right into it and press up against him. Last time, Dirk’d had him pressed right up against the wall, hips pinned down and hands very much tied so he couldn’t even get his fingers in that immaculately styled hair to muss it. John very much intends on getting him back for that this time around.</p>
<p>He hums a little, teeth catching at the perfect Cupid’s bow of Crocker’s upper lip, and hauls him up. It gets him a startled sound in return, but that’s nowhere near as loud as the indignant look John gets when he tosses Crocker right onto the bed. God, that’s so funny, he looks like some kind of ruffled bird.</p>
<p>John just settles down right on top of him, and of course Crocker flips them back over just a second later, because he’s a ridiculous control freak. John could write like, fifty jokes about it, but there’s none in which he doesn’t get to be part of the punch line because he definitely likes it. Maybe he can do some kind of a roast on his next set? That’d be pretty good.</p>
<p>“…Jesus. Stop thinking about shitty jokes now,” Crocker says, the disgust evident in his voice. “On one hand, whatever it takes for you to get it up. On the other…surely you’re not pathetic enough that it <em>is</em> what it takes for you to get it up.”</p>
<p>“Wow!” John deliberately hams this up. He is just slathering on that ‘boy next door’ charm he apparently has. “I didn’t know you were this insecure, Dirk, I mean. You know you’re plenty enough for me to get it up, right?”</p>
<p>“So is Viagra. The bar is on the floor,” Crocker tells him archly. Fuck. It’s John’s least favorite thing in the world, when he’s funny. He’s not supposed to have a sense of humor.</p>
<p>“…Are you saying that I need Viagra? Because I’m only like, five years older than you,” John points out as his brain catches up to that.</p>
<p>“Are <em>you</em> saying that you need Viagra?” A raised blonde eyebrow, and then Crocker’s grinding right down against him with a low hum. Again, unfair, because John’s answer gets caught in the crossfire as he tries to bite down a moan.</p>
<p>“Nnno,” he finally manages to get out. Ugh. Crocker is way too composed, John needs to fix it, like. Immediately. Pronto. He props himself up on an elbow and promptly kisses Dirk to just get him to be quiet- and of course it doesn’t <em>work</em>, because he’s exactly the kind of maniac to try and talk through a kiss, even though that makes it almost impossible.</p>
<p>John keeps kissing him anyway, though. Kissing people silent is really not as romantic as the movies make it seem, especially not people who are as goddamn stubborn as Dirk Crocker is. Not that there’s anything remotely romantic about what they’re doing. It’s sex, plain and simple. At best, it’s hate-fucking. At worst it’s just a mission for information going wrong, again.</p>
<p>And so what if there’s probably been way too many agains for this? John knows that Rose knows, because Rose always knows. He remembers the assessing look she’d given him when he’d come back one day with a hickey sucked high against his jaw, a complement to the scratch marks right down his back and the bruises from a too-tight grip on his wrists. He’s just grateful she hadn’t said anything about it, other than to ask if he was sure he was alright doing this.</p>
<p>(John, admittedly, doesn’t know what ‘this’ is. He didn’t like the way she’d said it, either, it niggled at something unpleasant, made him feel dirty. Not like he was being used, but like he was the one doing the using, like he was somehow taking advantage of Dirk Crocker. Like that’s even possible. Like he’s managed to get a single piece of useful information out of him, no matter how hard he’s tried. And he’s tried.)</p>
<p>“Egbert,” he finally says, breaking the kiss. There’s a palm splayed on his chest that forces some distance between them, and John notes with a whole lot of satisfaction that those cheeks are flushed red, and his mouth is kiss-swollen instead of being pressed into a blank line, or offering an awful, fake smile or smug smirk. “Are we going to get around to it or what? Your pants are kind of still on, which seems real counterproductive.”</p>
<p>“Is it? Or is it just common sense? What if your cold hands grab my ass when they’re down?”</p>
<p>“You say that like you hate it when I grab your ass,” Crocker drawls out, and does just that, slim fingers squeezing and digging in as they drag John closer. Their hips press together, and John can feel the hard line of him pressed right up against his sweats. Not that he’s in better condition, sure, but it’s always pretty gratifying to know that he can affect someone as unflappable as Crocker is. “When in fact there is irrefutable empirical evidence that you like just about everything I do to your ass, including when I kick it.”</p>
<p>Another squeeze, and that’s just not helping his brain try and fish around for a comeback. This is unfair. John shifts, lines up properly to start grinding against him, and he’s rewarded with even, white teeth sinking into a plush lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood.</p>
<p>“Like, mh. Like you’ve ever <em>really</em> managed to kick my ass,” John teases. “You can’t even lift Zillyhoo.”</p>
<p>Crocker groans, and John would count that as a win if it wasn’t obviously one of annoyance.</p>
<p>“Listen, bro. I know the hammer pulls you off and all, but you seriously did not need to give it the single most ridiculous name around. Zillyhoo. That can only ever sound like a euphemism for penis,” he says, all too serious. John really doesn’t like how coherent he can be in situations like this. But John <em>does</em> really like fucking it out of him, so he guesses it’s okay for now.</p>
<p>“You’re the one who likes how good I am at using my Zillyhoo. My…willyhoo?” he suggests, with the best grin he can manage. It’s the kind he shoots at audiences in his shows, all co-conspiratorial, you’re in on the joke with me, wink wink nudge nudge.</p>
<p>It’s kind of predictably wasted on Crocker. John doesn’t really know if he’s rolling his eyes behind those shades or what, but the rest of his face isn’t doing much, for all that John’s grinding against him and he’s slowly getting redder.</p>
<p>“That’s it,” Crocker sighs. “Boner gone. I can’t continue after this. Congratulations, Mr. Egbert, you have officially killed both the mood, and my sex drive.”</p>
<p>Evidence to the contrary is pretty obvious, though, so John really isn’t too worried about that.</p>
<p>“Oh my god,” John rolls his eyes. He’ll play along. “How are you so dramatic?”</p>
<p>“Me? Dramatic? Perish the thought. This was a perfectly reasonable reaction to the <em>single</em> worst joke I have ever heard.”</p>
<p>“The worst-,” okay, now John might be kind of professionally outraged. “Your brother!”</p>
<p>“Please don’t bring Dave up when we’re doing this.” Crocker says that with no hint of levity in his tone, the teasing gone to ice in a split-second. He’s so mercurial that John can hardly keep up sometimes.</p>
<p>(Maybe that’s why he keeps coming back.)</p>
<p>(Well, that and the sex really <em>is</em> good. Which John really would not have guessed.)</p>
<p>“Are you sure?” John asks, because that right there is a sore spot and he’s going to poke at it until it bruises. Maybe that doesn’t make him a good person, but John’s pretty sure that with Dirk Crocker in the room? He’s a fucking saint.</p>
<p>“Are you sure you want to get off instead of getting a knife shoved somewhere uncomfortable?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.</p>
<p>“You don’t have a knife,” John says. He’s really glad he sounds confident about that. There is, actually, nowhere that Crocker can be hiding a knife, unless it was somewhere very uncomfortable for him.</p>
<p>Crocker’s hand disappears for a moment as he thumbs through his sylladex, and suddenly there’s a cold blade pressed right against John’s throat. He stops</p>
<p>His dick twitches. This has to be vengeance for calling it willyhoo, John knows. Betrayed by his own body.</p>
<p>“Woah, there,” he says instead, because he’s got no sense of self-preservation, apparently. But that’s fine. Crocker isn’t going to hurt him. He’s pretty sure. Well, Crocker has been in a position to hurt him pretty severely in the past and it’s not actually happened yet, so John thinks he’s probably okay. “Hold your horses.”</p>
<p>“Why don’t you take off your pants and we’ll go from there?” he suggests, with that smug bullshit tone John absolutely despises. Crocker’s acting like he’s already won just because he has a knife to John’s throat, and- okay, it doesn’t look <em>great</em>, but that’s not the point. It probably isn’t amazing that John’s really considering listening, either, because that’s going to set some precedents that he’s not sure are good. For one, that Crocker can just, get whatever he wants by brandishing a knife. That’s definitely not good. For two, that John will just <em>listen</em> when there’s a knife involved. Even worse. And third, that he likes it when there’s a knife involved, which. He’s just going to plead the fifth to that. He learns a lot with every encounter, he just kind of sometimes wishes that he wasn’t learning mostly about himself.</p>
<p>“Why don’t you put the knife away, and we’ll go from <em>there</em>?” John asks, in the exact same tone.</p>
<p>The knife presses in just a little bit harder.</p>
<p>He swallows, and feels the blade’s edge push against his throat. Fuck.</p>
<p>“Would you care to repeat yourself, Mr. Egbert?” Crocker asks, deceptively mild.</p>
<p>“…I’ll get my pants off,” John says. He’s lost this battle, but not the war. He shifts back to stand and shuck his pants off. And ignore the snort as Crocker sees his underwear- which, well. John isn’t going to get all dressed up for Dirk Crocker of all people. If his ghost boxers don’t fill Crocker with disgust, what is John even doing with his life?</p>
<p>“Finally.” If John doesn’t know better, he’d have said that Crocker is rolling his eyes under those shades. He probably thinks he’s above all that, though. John strips down, ignores the weird twinge that always accompanies being naked around Dirk Crocker, and by the time he straightens up, the knife is just gone and Crocker is sitting there squirting lube onto his fingers.</p>
<p>Well, okay. His efficiency’s always been scary, but sometimes, John has to admit (and only to himself) that it’s kind of good.</p>
<p>John settles back onto the bed, getting himself good and comfortable, and Crocker promptly yanks his legs apart just hard enough that it’s kind of annoying, and settles between them.</p>
<p>“Asshole,” John offers, but it’s lazy.</p>
<p>“Yeah, that’s the goal,” he replies, deadpan. “I know you know how this works.”</p>
<p>“I’m surprised <em>you</em> know how this works,” John snipes back, and he gets a pinch to his thigh for all his trouble. Asshole. “Where’d you even materialize the goop from?”</p>
<p><em>Goop</em>, he sees Crocker mouth, somehow dripping in condescension even though he doesn’t actually say it. Nonverbal barbs are his thing on a level that John just doesn’t comprehend sometimes.</p>
<p>He never actually gets an answer, but you know what? John’s not going to complain about it. Not when there’s a slick finger, just a shade too cool because of course Crocker wouldn’t just <em>warm it up</em> like a normal person, pressing against his hole and making him shudder. He’s only wearing one glove and it should be ridiculous, but it’s more annoying than anything else.</p>
<p>“You’re the worst,” he says, but it’s too breathy to hold any real venom behind it.</p>
<p>“And you keep coming back for more. Wonder why that is?” Crocker asks. His tone is conversational in the way that says he knows exactly why that is, and is going to take a great deal of pleasure in making John say it.</p>
<p>“Jeez, I don’t know- ah-!” He can’t even pretend to think about it properly, not as Crocker’s finger eases into him slow and deliberate, not stopping until it’s in all the way to the first knuckle. The stretch isn’t bad- it rarely is with just one; Dirk’s fingers are slim and long, his palms smooth but for the calluses that come from his sword, and they’re the complete opposite of John’s thicker, rougher fingers.</p>
<p>John does like to think he’s just as talented with them, though.</p>
<p>“Sorry. You were saying?” Ugh, he’s not even pretending to be polite.</p>
<p>“I was <em>saying</em> before you went and was rude and interrupted me,” John huffs, “that I don’t know what you’re talking about? You make it sound like I’m desperate for your company or something! I’d literally rather spend my day with, like. A dead fish or something? Or, or. One of those weirdo paps that are always around.”</p>
<p>“Oh, perish the thought,” Dirk says, all too agreeable as his finger starts to move inside John. Just slow, deliberate rocks, working him open. He hates that Crocker is so good at it, that he knows exactly what John likes. That he’s known from the minute they’d laid eyes on one another eight months ago. “I’d rather spend my time with a dead fish, too. They’d be far better company. Definitely more intelligent conversation.”</p>
<p>“I guess you’d know, what with your mom and a-aall.” Crocker is playing not just dirty but filthy with this, because he’s just sliding in a second finger, and John squirms. He can feel the ache starting to build now, and his whole body feels too hot as he tries not to move <em>too</em> much. Okay, yes, it’s really fucking obvious that he’s into it thanks to his dumb, drippy boner, but he doesn’t need to just drop everything and start begging.</p>
<p>He can’t make it that easy, at least.</p>
<p>“Is there a particular reason you’re wanting to talk about my Mother during sex?” Crocker arches an eyebrow. “I’m not entirely certain what complex that is, but you may have some unchecked Oedipal issues you ought to investigate, if that’s the case.”</p>
<p>He’s still stretching John through all this, but John’s pretty sure that he doesn’t actually need to be taking so long about it. Especially not when these are just a few stolen moments, when any wrong move or too-loud moan from either of them is going to mean trouble, going to mean getting caught out.</p>
<p>John tries very hard not to think about how hot that is.</p>
<p>His fingers do this, this thing, where they push in deep and spread out, rubbing right against that perfect spot inside him, because apparently Crocker has some kind of a mental map of the inside of his ass, and John’s toes curl. He wants more, he wants Crocker to stop fucking around with all that foreplay and just fuck him until he can’t walk like they always end up doing.</p>
<p>John belatedly realizes his mouth is open. He might have said that out loud.</p>
<p>“Wow. That’s a very heterosexual way to think of things, Mr. Egbert,” Crocker drawls out. Oh, jeez. He definitely said that out loud.</p>
<p>The pad of one finger’s circling his prostate again, merciless friction that nearly makes John’s eyes roll back in his head. He can’t even stop himself from rocking right down onto Crocker’s hand, urging more, deeper, harder. It’s embarrassing, to be so desperate for it he’s fucking himself on the guy’s fingers, but here he is.</p>
<p>It’s kind of comforting to know that he can sort of make Crocker do the same thing, though.</p>
<p>“I’m- nnh. You know what they say,” he manages to get out. “It’s not gay if the balls don’t touch, right?”</p>
<p>A thumb moves to drag against his taint, up to said balls. It makes him shiver more than anything else; he’s kind of distracted by the fingers inside him right about now.</p>
<p>“Who says that?” Crocker asks, and John is really not in the headspace to figure out whether or not that’s a genuine question or Crocker fucking with him. “Never mind. Not important. Do we need to have a discussion about your internalized homophobia?”</p>
<p>“I uh, think a couple of other things should be internalized first,” John grumbles. “Why is it that you always take forever about this?”</p>
<p>“Are you worried that you’re going to get off too soon? Because a solution could very easily be arranged.”</p>
<p>Once more, his traitor dick betrays him, giving a very interested twitch. It’s not helpful to think about those clever fingers snug around the base of his cock, too tight to be comfortable, too tight to- hah, be <em>come-</em>fortable. It’s actually a lot worse when he thinks about how much he’d like to be on the other end of that scenario sometime, get Crocker tied up and pretty with a ring there, and just make him fall apart. Properly. Make him beg for it, even.</p>
<p>(Sometimes, John doesn’t really like the way he thinks about the other man, it makes him feel all kinds of dirty in a way that has nothing to do with internalized homophobia at all, thank you very much. Instead, it’s got everything to do with, ‘hey, John, what the hell are you doing sexualizing this bastard when he’s probably pure evil or as close to it as anyone can get that’s not his mother, don’t you know how much blood is on his hands?’ That’s not an argument he ever has with Crocker, though. The guy’s already pointed out just how much blood is on John’s, and he knew getting into this that it wasn’t good, clean work. He knew that, but some days-)</p>
<p>“Eyes over here, honestly, Mr. Egbert. Your failure to follow even the simplest of instructions is absolutely astounding.” Crocker’s smooth baritone breaks John neatly out of all that, and another stupid clever twist of his fingers has all thoughts flying out of his head again.</p>
<p>“I- nnh, but the ceiling is <em>s- </em>ah, <em>so</em> much more interesting than your dumb face,” he pants out, like a liar. It’s not. It really, really is not. It’s just a normal ceiling and it’s probably white, and there’s definitely a light up there, and that’s all he can really make out because he’s practically seeing stars. His cock is a throbbing, leaking mess, and it feels like just one touch might actually be enough to get him off, no matter how hard he tries to stop himself. Ha, hard.</p>
<p>“Oh, is that so?” he asks, in the tone of voice that tells John he’s really going to be regretting saying what he just said. No one makes him eat his own words like Dirk Crocker does, when it comes down to it. “I was thinking about having you on all fours, but I suppose you can stay on your back if you want me doing all the work. Again. Very heterosexual, that is. Or maybe just vanilla? Should I be worried about your catching feelings, Mr. Egbert?”</p>
<p>Crocker is teasing like he always does, but there’s an edge of danger to that last question, like it’s some kind of <em>test</em>. Which- is dumb, because there’s only one real answer to it anyway.</p>
<p>“Pffff,” John shakes his head, cheeks puffing out as he blows a raspberry in dismissal. “You wish! The only feeling I have right now is that I want you to hurry up and fuck me already, and I really don’t think that’s catching!”</p>
<p>“So demanding,” Crocker murmurs. Clearly, he’s satisfied with that answer. “I’m almost tempted to give you what you want. Key word being almost, though. You need to learn how to ask nicely.”</p>
<p>“I’ve <em>been</em> asking nicely, haven’t I? I didn’t steal that knife and point it at you,” John says. Which is true, but only because he hasn’t figured out where the knife has gone, just yet. He’s been distracted, okay?</p>
<p>“Have you? All I recall are bold-faced demands,” Crocker muses. A solicitous palm rests on his ass before Crocker grabs a handful of it and, squeezes tight. “I keep telling you over and over that you need to learn some manners.”</p>
<p>“What, are you going to spank me if I don’t?”</p>
<p>The way Crocker tilts his head to the side like he’s actually considering it should be a lot more concerning than it is. John’ll blame having three fingers up his butt, when it comes to thinking about why it kind of turns him on. This is the kind of game Crocker likes to play, a natural extension to lessons being taught and learned, punishments for a smart mouth or a(n impossible) task failed. Hell, John’s had him bent over his knees before, ass turning red at each hit, and it’s one of his more used memories, even if it hasn’t happened again. Maybe that’s why Crocker suggested it this time. He’s never content to be on the losing side of anything, and he loves nothing more than the ‘irony’ of turning the tables on John with the same trick John’d used on him earlier. Well, he says it’s irony. John’s pretty sure it’s just copying.</p>
<p>“Maybe next time,” he finally says, and he does look like he’s just made a mental note and tacked it on some kind of noticeboard in his head. Written it down in a calendar or something: Spank Egbert until his ass glows next week. Crocker is so serious about everything it borders on ridiculous. “But for now. I believe I’ve got to make you beg for it.”</p>
<p>A smirk tugs at his lips, just this side of cruel, and John knows he’s not going to get off without sacrificing his pride. It should be a lot less embarrassing than it is, given how much they do this, but a hot flush of shame still spreads across John’s face, makes him want to clam up tight and not say a word.</p>
<p>“I’d like to see you try,” he says, instead. It’s not even a joke. There’s nothing he likes more about this than making Crocker try, and actually look like he’s trying.</p>
<p>He knows Crocker can play him like a fiddle- and that there’s some part of himself that <em>wants</em> it-, but that doesn’t mean he has to make it easy. Crocker’s going to have to work for it, just like John has to work to get every little reaction out of him in return.</p>
<p>(John knows he’s not going to be putting up the same kind of fight, but some days it seems like Crocker isn’t expecting one at all, like John’s just some easy slut who’ll spread his legs if Crocker looks at him the right way. And, well, he doesn’t <em>not</em> feel like one, and no number of hot showers are going to change that, but he can still tell himself this is for the greater good, ad if he tries hard enough, he can even believe it.)</p>
<p>(It’s not selfish. It isn’t.)</p>
<p>(He knows exactly what Crocker would have to say to that.)</p>
<p>Dirk just hums, the sound contemptuous for something that doesn’t even have any syllables to it.</p>
<p>“If you insist. Tell me when you’re close,” Crocker says, and there’s a hint of steel in his voice again, the kind that’s usually there before he lunges at someone with a sword, or tells them they’re going to be executed. Probably both. It’s not great, that John thinks that control is actually kind of hot, especially when it’s directed at him with the full weight of Dirk fucking Crocker’s attention. How many people would kill to be where he is now? How many people would kill, if they were here now?</p>
<p>John- doesn’t think about that. He can’t. Not when Dirk’s fingers are moving inside him again, and his back arches up, hips grinding down until they can’t anymore. It’s not enough, but it’s enough to get all the thoughts right out of his head, and he’s more than happy to introduce them to his boot to speed that along.</p>
<p>Time stretches like taffy, the good, saltwater kind you find at little stores in the beach, and John’s world narrows to the stretch inside him, the growing tension in his gut, the way he wants to touch himself so badly he has to curl his fingers in the sheets so he doesn’t. And all the while, Dirk Crocker’s knowing look through those dumb fucking shades that John’s still yet to see him without, even if his own glasses are sitting crooked on the bridge of his nose, sending a solid third of his vision into a blur.</p>
<p>Crocker leans in, slim fingers nudge them up straighter. God. He’s so dumb about things being all good and proper. Or maybe he just wants John to see how stupid and smug he is about having three fingers in his ass. John thinks it’s probably a good combination of both.</p>
<p>But Dirk doesn’t lean away, either. Instead, a hot, wet mouth traces a path down his neck and chest, teeth digging in sharp enough to bruise, just another throbbing ache that makes his dick twitch. Crocker catches a nipple in his mouth, tugs until John swears at him louder than he means to, and then does the same thing to the other, just mouthing at it until John finally gets a hand in his ridiculous, perfectly styled hair, and yanks him off.</p>
<p>“F-fuck, they’re not going to like, leak milk or anything,” John says, and immediately regrets it. It’s both absurd and said too shakily.</p>
<p>Crocker just stares at him for a moment.</p>
<p>“The word is lactate,” he says back. “I was going to suck your dick, but I’ve changed my mind.”</p>
<p>“…Yeah, that’s fair.” Okay, John knows he sounds too disappointed here, but- for all that Crocker says <em>he</em> looks good on his knees? John thinks that there’s not much around that beats the rush of getting his dick right into Dirk Crocker’s mouth, holding his head steady as he fucks into it.</p>
<p>Crocker’s eyes flicker down to his dick as he straightens up again, and John isn’t even going to think about how weird it is he kind of misses the proximity when all the attention is still on him. Too-deft fingers trace down the shaft, dip lower to cup his balls and squeeze lightly. They’re still silk-smooth. John’s going to fucking ruin those gloves, and the thought is stupidly hot. He has to struggle not to gasp out, and he’s pretty sure he lost that fight badly.</p>
<p>“You haven’t begged yet, you know,” Dirk says, conversational. His hand slides back up, fingers curl just around John’s dick, too loose for any real friction, but he’s so desperate even the glancing touch is fucking amazing.</p>
<p>A long, slow stroke, until Crocker’s thumb is rubbing at the head, smearing slick pre all over it. The fabric’s wet now, he knows, and he can sort of feel the difference. John’s hips cant up, automatic, and he bites at the inside of his cheek hard because <em>that</em> makes the fingers in him shift in all kinds of interesting ways. There’s just no winning here, huh.</p>
<p>“I don’t-,” John is rudely cut off by his own moan, as Crocker strokes him again. “Hahh…will you quit that? I’m, mh. Trying to talk here.”</p>
<p>“I’d stop if you had anything of note to say,” Crocker shrugs, disdainful in the casual way only he can pull off. It is <em>really</em> not fair that John now thinks it’s kind of hot. He’s being conditioned, probably. Oh, god, he’s like those dogs Rose keeps talking about.</p>
<p>But the way Crocker keeps moving his hands tells him that there’s really no way he’s going to stop until John caves and begs.</p>
<p>He tries to hold out. He really does. But then Dirk’s fingers are fucking into him harder and he’s still palming at his cock, and John can feel how wet and slick it all is, and he-</p>
<p>Fuck, he really doesn’t want to come just from this, but if Crocker keeps it up, he <em>will.</em></p>
<p>John grits his teeth, forces out a “please,” as his hips buck up, eager.</p>
<p>“Sorry, what was that? I don’t think I heard right.” Satisfaction drips from every syllable, though, settles warm over John like a shroud.</p>
<p>“Ffu-fuck! I said <em>please</em>,” he downright cries out this time, and he’ll be super embarrassed about that later, once he’s actually gotten off.</p>
<p>There’s a smile on Crocker’s face now, smug but fuck if it’s not genuine, and John doesn’t even think he knows it’s there. He’ll take it as a win.</p>
<p>“Good,” Crocker says, soft as he withdraws. John just squints over at him, doesn’t bother not snorting at how fast he puts the condom on and then settles between John’s legs.</p>
<p>They’re close again, pressed almost chest to chest, and John shudders as the blunt head of his dick presses against his ass. Accidentally, at first, and then with intent.</p>
<p>Yeah. He knows Crocker is looking at him, gauging his reaction as his hips nudge forward, and- oh.</p>
<p>This- this is why John keeps coming back.</p>
<p>Dirk pushes in and he’s so full he can’t breathe for a single moment, his fingers clutching hard at the other’s shoulders. They’ll bruise, he thinks, and then right after that- <em>good</em>, <em>let it</em>, John wants to mark him up as much as he’s marked in turn, chip away at that iron control just a little bit more.</p>
<p>“Would you look at that,” Crocker says when he’s fully seated, his voice just the slightest bit uneven. John’s still counting it as a victory. “The balls appear to be touching.”</p>
<p>Joh stifles a groan- this one is pure frustration, and only partially at Crocker. He wouldn’t have done it otherwise. He <em>knows </em>Crocker likes it when he’s loud, he knows Crocker likes it when John gets fingers in his hair and pulls him into a kiss, so close they’re barely two separate people anymore, just two halves of the same being sharing breath and groaning into each other’s mouths. It’d be poetic, if one half wasn’t despicable in every way, and if they didn’t hate each other, probably.</p>
<p>“Move,” John pants out, more uneven than he might like. “C’mon. Don’t go acting like I’m all breakable now.”</p>
<p>He feels Crocker smile against the shell of his ear, all teeth and hot breath.</p>
<p>“Careful what you wish for, Mr. Egbert,” he says. Still dangerously composed in that frustrating way, and he somehow sounds more threatening now than when he had a knife pressed to John’s neck.</p>
<p>“God. You’re such a brat, how are you such a brat when you’re literally inside me?” He asks. The question is meant to be rhetorical, but the answer genuinely slips his mind as Crocker listens, and starts to move.</p>
<p>The thing about Dirk Crocker, John knows, is that he’s consistent. Which is what makes it all the more frustrating when he still manages to take John by surprise. The slow roll of his hips back, the harsh snap forward to thrust in again- none of that’s new, but it’s still forcing a choked moan out of him, still makes him hike one leg up, his heel digging into the small of Crocker’s back to encourage him to go faster. And he does.</p>
<p>Neither of them are pretending that this is anything it’s not. It’s sex, plain and simple. Blowing off steam, even if no blowing had been done today (and John is absolutely filing that joke away for later, thank you very much.)</p>
<p>But it’s still a body pressed right against his, the smooth, freckled expanse of Crocker’s stomach moving against his cock with each thrust, friction that’s more of a tease than anything else. It’s still long-fingered, surprisingly calloused hands on his hips, made smooth by the fabric of his gloves, nails digging in tight enough that he knows he’s going to bruise, too, and he relishes the thought. He’ll fit his fingers against them later, press in and feel that ache and maybe he’ll hate himself for letting Crocker do this to him, but maybe he won’t, because he knows Crocker is going to be looking at the marks on his neck and chest and doing the same thing, and that makes it better.</p>
<p>It’s downright intimate, and it’s with someone he’s got absolutely no business being intimate with, let alone wanting to, but Crocker is in the same boat there- in fact, John’s pretty sure that if they get caught, it’s going to be a lot worse for Dirk than it is for him, all things considered. It just makes the fact that he’s <em>still</em> doing this even better. A fact to relish like it’s awful, mind-bending boxed cake or too-sweet candy.</p>
<p>Crocker sets a fast pace, hard and punishing, and his breathing’s getting louder, raspier. John knows he’s not in any better condition; it feels like he’s hot everywhere, and all he can think of is how good it feels when Crocker shifts angles and pushes in deep and pleasure starbursts across his field of vision. He moans, loud and shameless, and this time entirely genuine. It’s still worth it, to see the brief flash of panic (maybe? It’s sure something worried, and John’s marvelling to see that, too) that darts across Crocker’s face, even when there’s a palm pressed firm to his mouth just a second later to muffle any noises.</p>
<p>“’nfr,” he mumbles, entirely incoherent.</p>
<p>“You need to learn how to keep quiet, Mr. Egbert,” Crocker says. But his voice isn’t so smooth anymore, and that flush has spread all the way down to his chest, and John wants to chase it with his mouth all over again, taste the salt of his skin and bite down and make sure Crocker doesn’t forget who did this to him.</p>
<p>John just moans louder against his hand in defiance. It’s not a real gag, it can’t muffle sounds as well as Crocker might like.</p>
<p>And it gets him a flicker of displeasure crossing that face, too-straight too-sharp teeth baring for a second in a snarl that’s not quite a human expression.</p>
<p><em>I see you</em>, he wants to say, but he wouldn’t even be able to manage it without the hand pressed to his mouth. He bites hard into the meat of Crocker’s thumb instead, and wonders what his blood would taste like, if it’d be sugar sweet like candy or bitter-metal and all too human. <em>I see you, look at me.</em></p>
<p><em> <strike>You see me too, don’t you</strike> </em> <em>?</em></p>
<p>Crocker is looking, John knows that. Even through the dark glass of his stupid pointy shades, the weight of his attention is heavy.</p>
<p>(Some small, stupid part of John thinks that this is significant, that it <em>means</em> something, to have Crocker’s attention. The rest of him knows it’s more like how an insect collector looks at his bugs before pinning them up on a board to display, or how a shark looks at its next meal. It doesn’t mean anything, that Crocker is looking at him. It doesn’t mean anything at all.)</p>
<p>John leans up, and Crocker moves his hand and closes the distance between them for a searing hot kiss, because if he’s anything at all, it’s attentive to the details. Sometimes, he feels like every hitch in his breath, every little reaction, is being catalogued and stored away for later. Like Crocker is going to pore over this just to find some kind of weakness.</p>
<p>But then again, it’d probably just give him a boner. John knows he’s pretty hot, after all. And more than that, John already knows that Crocker knows what his weaknesses are, because all he does is spit them back in his face. That just makes it all the better when he wins, though.</p>
<p>He gets a hand into Crocker’s hair, determined to ruin the perfectly coiffed strands, even if the texture of whatever weird product he uses is uncomfortable against his fingers. John pulls, too, and that gets a strangled groan out of Crocker that goes right to his dick. He bites down on Crocker’s lower lip, not hard enough to draw blood despite the urge from earlier, because John isn’t <em>actually</em> stupid, even if it’s so hard to think with Crocker taking the time to just thoroughly fuck him.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he hisses out into the space between them, when he hits that spot again. John knows Crocker doesn’t ever want him to move too much, knows that this is all about carefully curated control, but there’s almost nothing better than that dumb frown he gets when his plas aren’t going perfectly, and there’s very little John likes more than putting that expression on his face. So he moves his hips, rocking deliberately against him to disrupt Crocker’s rhythm, and he can’t hide the smugness in his grin as Crocker’s brows draw together and he has to hurry up to match John’s pace. That’s <em>so</em> much better, too.</p>
<p>“Good boy,” John says, as mocking as he can make it. He’s not sure that it comes across as well as it could have, given that his voice catches and breaks in the middle of the word ‘good’, but he’s trying his best, okay? He is. </p>
<p>“God,” Crocker grits out. “Will you just shut up, man? For once in your life?”</p>
<p>“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’ and everything, because he can <em>tell</em> Crocker is getting close now too (good, because so is John, but he’s determined to last longer this time, he really is), and getting under his skin is its own kind of high. He slides one hand down the smooth arch of his spine, nails dragging against the skin harsh enough to leave reddened marks there, even if they won’t last for longer than a few seconds. John grabs a handful of that unfortunately pert ass, encouraging him to push in deeper, bringing their hips flush together so he can just grind against him.</p>
<p>The moan that Crocker lets out at that is honestly sinful. It’s going to be playing on repeat for a year inside John’s head. He likes to think that he’s the only one who’s ever heard Crocker make a noise like that, and there’s a hot flush of pride settling in his chest too, because he knows he’s worked for it. He knows how to take Dirk Crocker apart, and turn him into putty, and that’s a unique pleasure in and of itself.</p>
<p>“C’mon,” he murmurs, pitching his voice low and husky. “Come for me.” His fingers dig in for emphasis, and John can feel the moment that he <em>does,</em> a few stuttered, shallow thrusts later, and a moan that gets bitten-off too quickly. John feels cheated by that, somehow, but he’s too far gone to think much of it.</p>
<p>“Hey, now,” he says, teasing, almost fond, though he hopes that one doesn’t register. Crocker is struggling not to just slump against him, he can tell. “Don’t go being all selfish and forgetting about me.”</p>
<p>And as predicted, that does the trick neatly. Crocker gives him a look that’s too sour for someone who just came as hard as he did, but he reaches down, fingers curling around John’s cock with a grip that’s just shy of mean but exactly what he wants. He’s quiet, efficient, no words of encouragement to be found here, but John doesn’t mind. That’s too weird, and right now, all he can think of is how much he wants to get off, the slow, tightening build of pleasure low in his gut.</p>
<p>It doesn’t take long at all, just a few deft strokes from Crocker’s too-talented fingers, and John’s coming with a groan that’s barely muffled against the palm pressed right against his mouth.</p>
<p>He feels more than sees Crocker shudder, still oversensitive, as he tightens around him, but it’s just as good knowing he got that reaction. No cute little whine or whimper today, but. Next time, maybe.</p>
<p>John heaves out a slow breath, and lets his eyes drift shut. Sure, he’s aware of Crocker shifting above him (and excruciatingly aware of him pulling out, thanks), but it's all far away now.</p>
<p>
  <strong>***</strong>
</p>
<p>“You could always come visit me, you know.” It’s a stupid thing to say, and one that shatters the almost easy mood instantly. John can feel the other man tense some next to him, and he has to stop himself from reaching out and taking that gloved hand.</p>
<p>“You keep trying to lure me in with that. You might be charming, Egbert, but I’m not stupid.”</p>
<p>“Well, you can be pretty dumb sometimes,” John says, light and teasing. He shifts to lay on his side, arm folded under his head. He’s pushing it, he knows, lingering where he shouldn’t, and where he isn’t wanted. Dirk- because in the privacy of his own head, John can call him that- is already sitting up, getting dressed. The bruises he’d left are covered up efficiently as always, but John knows better than to frown or complain about it. His own have to be hidden just as carefully, after all.</p>
<p>“Hardly. There’s nothing in this room that’s of any use to you at all,” Dirk tells him, bending over to smooth the creases out of his slacks. It’s a nice view, John has to admit. “Everything important is very well hidden and very much locked up, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t bed my enemy when there’s Company secrets lying around.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, I feel like there’s plenty Company secrets in that head of yours,” John points out, raising an eyebrow. “And you <em>were</em> lying around just now, for like, five seconds. Which, by the way- have you never heard of the afterglow? Post-sex cuddles? Things that are good and enjoyable?”</p>
<p>John knows he really, really needs to stop talking- this is probably the only in on Dirk Crocker that he’s going to get, and while the whole honeypot thing hadn’t ever occurred to him as an avenue of attack before, any access is good access, right? And he doesn’t want to spook him or anything.</p>
<p>It’s definitely not that maybe, just maybe, one of these days John thinks he could really convince him. Dirk Crocker is all ice and sharp edges, but under all of that, he’s terribly young.</p>
<p>“Theory and practice are two very different things,” Dirk says, and just like that, he’s Crocker all over again, his voice ice cold and about as emotional as a rock. He stands in front of the full-length mirror in the room, head tipped back just a fraction as deft, gloved fingers adjust the bright red tie he wears. The knot nestles right into the hollow of his throat, and John can’t help but think it looks a whole lot like a noose.</p>
<p>On goes his jacket, concealing the deeper red of his vest and the crisp, perfect white of a shirt John really, really wanted to ruin. It’d have been a small victory to anyone else, but Crockers don’t make concessions, and nor do they suffer losses.</p>
<p>He’s still wearing the ruined glove, though, and John thinks he’s allowed to be as smug as he wants about how it’s definitely going to get all crusty by the time he gets back to his office.</p>
<p>“You should go,” he says. He’s not even looking at John through the mirror, already striding over to the door. “You know the easiest route out by now. I’ll see you at our next appointment, Mr. Egbert. Don’t linger.”</p>
<p>John knows a dismissal when he hears one.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Better resolution of the art (as it does kind of look like AO3 chewed on it a bit) can be found <a href="https://ectoobaby.tumblr.com/post/634880295474184192/my-art-for-quixxotique-s-dirkjohn-bb-entry-your">here.</a></p><p>If you really want, you can find me on <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/quixxotique">tumblr</a>. Hope you liked this.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here we go.</p><p>Content warnings for this one are just culling, in the traditional troll sense, and alcohol consumption.</p><p>As much as I think Jack needs a warning for himself, he doesn't do a lot to earn one here.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s only Tuesday and yet there’s an itch under his skin.</p><p>Dirk catalogued it in the morning as a sense of unease, a prickle in the back of his neck. Base instinct and biology deciding to rear its ugly head and interrupt him. Of course, he’d ignored it entirely. Nothing can interfere with his work, and he knows that he has plenty that needs doing, for all that the week has barely gotten started.</p><p>It had abated at the gym during his two hours there, settled to simmer into nothing as he dove into the pool to swim his laps, over and over until his arms and legs were pleasantly numb and weightless, and the sting of salt drove out anything else. The hot shower afterwards certainly had helped matters.</p><p>But here he is, at work, and it’s back full force. He’s been more distracted than he ought to be during the past three meetings- two lobbyists (ie, investors), and a blue-blooded troll from R&amp;D asking about resource allocation-, though he knows that no one will have noticed. They’re all recorded, and he has an AI taking minutes, but the inattention is not something that comes to him naturally. It certainly isn’t something to be tolerated. Inattention leads to carelessness, and that leads to mistakes. And Dirk Crocker does not make mistakes.</p><p>Thankfully, this is his last scheduled meeting of the day. Less fortunately, it’s also his longest, and he suspects that it’s going to necessitate another, more unpleasant one shortly after, which sours the whole thing.</p><p>He doesn’t actually have any issues speaking to the Dignitary- he’s one of the Carapacians Mother is particularly fond of, and he and Dirk tolerate each other fairly well. If Dirk had to rank meetings he actually enjoyed, DD’s would likely be near the top of the list. The best meeting, is, of course, a cancelled one, not that he’ll ever admit to such blasphemy.</p><p>But the Dignitary is one of the few people around that Dirk can trust to actually follow orders and do them properly, no offense meant to the Droll, offense certainly meant to the Brute, and the utmost offense reserved for Noir. As long as he words everything perfectly, his orders will be followed to the letter, no more, and certainly no less. Dirk finds the mental gymnastics involved in that challenging, but in a good way. That being said, the Dignitary is very often the bearer of bad news, delivered in such a way that the messenger never gets harmed, but certainly would earn him a baleful glare from a lesser man.</p><p>It's a good thing Dirk isn’t a lesser man.</p><p>It’s also a good thing the Dignitary’s talking to him, rather than Mother, or Dave. Either of them would have gone nuclear at this particular news, and the Dignitary, for all that he deals with the others easily, is a fellow with a sense of self-preservation.</p><p>“That’s not good,” Dirk says. An understatement, to say the least. Lalonde is trouble, always has been, but this is a bold move even for her. The Carapacians make up such a significant portion of their workforce that it <em>is</em> a blow, to have even a portion of them listening.</p><p>“No.” DD exhales a steady stream of smoke into the air. The window is cracked open slightly, but the scent of cloves hangs heavily between them. Dirk’s slightly tense at the sight of it, but the smell is different enough from the acrid, cheap shit that Dave smokes that it doesn’t bother him. The plates on his fingers click against each other quietly as he ashes it; Dirk keeps a tray in the room just for him. He’s careful not to get any on the desk. “Am I telling the old lady about this?”</p><p>“Depends on how badly you want to live,” Dirk tells him. It’s not a joke, and the Dignitary doesn’t take it as one, though there’s a heaviness to his exhale that could be a huff of laughter.</p><p>“Not ready to die just yet, President,” he says. “Got things to do first. Most of it’s your brother’s paperwork.”</p><p>He narrows his eyes in a way that suggests Dirk should do something to fix that.</p><p>“Funny. Me, too.” He ignores that completely; it isn’t DD’s place to tell him what to do, even if Dirk needs very little reason to pick a fight with Dave. Granted, with Dave being himself, Dirk rarely needs to start one.</p><p>A rumbling click deep in his throat is the only answer Dirk gets. “Orders, then? Sir.”</p><p>Dirk narrows his eyes behind his shades.</p><p>“Cull them all. Send the Drones to do it, and two of the more sober clowns to supervise. We need to make an example of this,” Dirk tells him. Flat, even. It’s what needs to be done- there’s no doubt that Mother would do the same. Dave would too, but he’d delight in the carnage and go himself. Anything to shirk responsibility, really. There’s a reason Dirk is the one in charge of executions, and that’s simply because he doesn’t get distracted by all the fun beforehand. “Nip it in the bud. I’ll tell Mother myself.”</p><p>The Dignitary looks at him for a long moment, only adding to the cloud of smoke that surrounds his head, heavy and numbing. “Alright. Sir. I’ll be working overtime for this one, I take it.”</p><p>“We all will,” Dirk informs him. He resists the urge to wave his hand in the air and clear the smoke out. DD simply nods, and stubs his cigarette out on the tray. The butt gets flicked into the bin, but he doesn’t move. He won’t until he’s told to leave, and Dirk is hardly in the mood to suffer an observer.</p><p>“Send in Noir on your way out,” Dirk says. “There’s more to be done, and he’s been relaxing for too long.”</p><p>“You’re gonna need a drink after that. He’s in a mood,” is all the other says, laconic as ever. God. That’s precisely the last thing Dirk would like right now. He nods instead, and only when he’s alone does he pinch at the bridge of his nose, and let out a long sigh. If Jack Noir is in a mood terrible enough that the Dignitary is warning him, then it means it has something to do with the rest of his family. Or, potentially, Noir’s on-and-off lover. Not that Dirk pays a particular amount of attention to that; he only knows it because she was the one to divest him of an arm and an eye, which is impressive enough on its own. She hasn’t inserted herself into any of their business interests, though, and if Mother doesn’t see fit to intervene, Dirk is content to simply keep an eye on it.</p><p>He has precisely four seconds to compose himself before the Archagent, Jack Noir himself, storms into the room and flings himself into the chair recently occupied by the Dignitary with enough force to make it creak in protest. He produces a knife, and starts cleaning the joints of his fingers with it, easing bits of grit from beneath his carapace.</p><p>“Heard you wanted t’see me.”</p><p>“Consider it more that I’m obligated to see you,” Dirk says, straightening up. The scrape of steel on chitin plates sets his teeth on edge. He’s ninety four percent certain that Noir is doing it for that reason.</p><p>“No need t’be a rude bitch,” Noir says, barely looking at him. “Take after the old lady that way. Now get to it and tell me what the fuck pain in the ass job she’s got for me this time and we can pretend this powwow shit ain’t never happened.”</p><p>“So, you want to pretend that it happened?” Dirk asks, specifically because it’s the kind of semantics that gets under the Archagent’s skin, as it were, and he thinks the other deserves that for being such of a pain to begin with. He gives it a moment (in which Noir snarls and in his usual manner, starts muttering about prissy-ass fuckers in suits- a comment which is not entirely exclusive to Dirk) before plucking a file off the top of the pile in his desk and extending it to Noir. When one hand grudgingly reaches over to receive it, he lets it drop onto the desk with a sad noise.</p><p>Noir bares his teeth. Dirk offers his blandest and fourth most pleasant smile.</p><p>“You were right, the job will be a pain in the ass. You’ll have the resources you need, of course; the Dignitary has already been informed of that and is dealing with it.” Dirk resists the urge to rub at his temples, the impending migraine looming darkly over what’s left of his hopes for a decent day. He’s reluctant to admit that those hopes were not founded at all, ever since he woke up antsy this morning, as unflagging optimism in the face of adversity is an important Company Value. However. His day was shot from the moment he opened his eyes, this is simply the cherry on top of the sundae.</p><p>Noir’s sneer deepens into a scowl as he starts flipping through the file, knife abandoned for now. Dirk braces himself for a tirade- and he isn’t disappointed. The knife is picked up and slammed deep into the wood of his poor desk, just one mark in a hundred, at this point, but an annoyance nonetheless. Mother would say that he ought to rein the Archagent in, that no real Prince would tolerate such disrespect. But he’s no prince, not really, and he’s no issue with allowing Noir to vent on what is frankly a deeply hideous desk. The stab marks are only an improvement.</p><p>“What in the fuck is this shit, Crocker, you know how long it’s gonna take? How much goddamn paperwork your ass is gonna have lying on my desk when I get back?” is what he finishes with, his visible eye narrowed to a slit and radiating palpable malice.</p><p>“Unfortunately, Noir, looks can’t kill,” Dirk drawls out, “so stop staring at me like that, else I’ll think you’ve got something more than murder on your mind. And yes, I know it’s going to take long. You’ll be halfway across the world, but Mother requested you do this specifically.”</p><p>It’s out of his hands entirely, is what Dirk means, though he’s reluctant to even hint at it. Noir’s scowl deepens, but some of his anger simmers down to a lower boil. No doubt to be redirected to Mother, though he’s smarter than to say it. Dirk can tolerate paltry insults to her- the kind she’d only laugh at-, but anything serious would require action on his part.</p><p>Oh, the games they play.</p><p>When no further opposition comes, Dirk drums his fingers against his desk.</p><p>“Good. You’ll leave as soon as possible,” Dirk informs him. “And for the second- and last- matter of business.” And perhaps the worst, considering the Dignitary’s news. “There’s been word of Carapacians siding with Lalonde recently, a cluster in upstate New York, remote and isolated from the rest. We think that it’s an issue with the cloning process itself, a defective batch, given that they came out of the same factory. It’s beyond redemption in those, and production has been shut down.”</p><p>“And what the fuck does that have to do with me?” the Archagent bristles, but there’s something much tenser in the set of his shoulders.</p><p>“I’m only letting you know,” Dirk says, mildly. “Others from the same batch are being tracked down, they’re about thirty human years old at this point, so still within their prime.”</p><p>“Again. What the fuck does that have to do with me?” Noir repeats. “If you can’t fuckin’ build ‘em properly, that’s your goddamn problem, ain’t it? Do I look like some sorta asshole lab tech to you, Crocker?”</p><p>“No. They have all their limbs intact,” Dirk replies, all teeth now. Noir always has to push it, never mind the myriad of favors they owe one another now. A hazard of working so closely together, though he really does prefer dealing with the Dignitary. Less fuss about getting shit done. Certainly less of a federal fucking issue to do it. “And <em>they</em> certainly wouldn’t require specific custom replacements for any missing parts because they couldn’t keep it in their pants. Nor would they need someone to argue their case for obtaining them, despite the cost and benefits nearly being equal.”</p><p>“I don’t owe you <em>shit</em>, Crocker,” Noir jabs a pointy finger in his direction, standing up now. He’s working himself up into the kind of anger that Dirk would normally find amusing. But not right now. “Don’t give me that fuckin’ corporate spiel about costs and benefits, I do damn good work and both you and that bitch know it-,”</p><p>“See to it that the one doesn’t outweigh the other,” Dirk says, smoothly. “Don’t talk about her like that again where I can hear it. Now get out of my office. This is time-sensitive; Mother wants you done with the job as soon as possible.”</p><p>There’s no response as Noir storms his way right out of Dirk’s office, letting the door slam shut behind him so hard that the room shakes with it.</p><p>The sound goes right to his migraine like a bullet. This is fine, Dirk reminds himself. He simply needs to get through the day, then he can go to bed and attempt to get some sleep. He’ll use some sopor substitute if he has to, though he’d really rather not, and-</p><p>Another knock on his door, offendingly jaunty.</p><p>No, wait.</p><p>That’s not a knuckle (or carapace) against wood. That’s against glass, and there’s only one person idiot enough to just knock on his window in the evening, where just about anyone can see.</p><p>He contemplates leaving Egbert out there high and dry, perhaps to be picked off by one of Dave’s more rambunctious corvid companions, but the Hitchcock-esque ending is probably too tame for an annoyance like John Egbert. That, and the crows are probably smart enough to know better than to try and take a piece out of that one. They’ve got taste.</p><p>Dirk wonders what that says about him. Less taste than a fucking bird. Dave would have a laugh at that one, that’s for sure.</p><p>He opens the window anyway, and unceremoniously yanks Egbert through it, and lets go just so he ends up in a crumpled heap on the floor. It’s carpet, he’ll be fine.</p><p>“You have no idea what the word ‘subtlety’ means, do you?” he asks. It’s a good opening, if he says so himself. The best kind force Egbert into a stunned silence, but the good kind still put him immediately on the defensive. Good. Dirk has absolutely no desire to worsen his headache.</p><p>“No one <em>saw</em> me,” Egbert says, rolling his eyes with nearly his whole face, as he always does. It looks absurd.</p><p>“You didn’t see anyone see you,” Dirk corrects. “Really, you should know to be more careful than this by now. It’s like you’ve learned absolutely nothing. Granted, your skull is particularly thick, but we’ve been through this enough that the lesson on being careful should have drilled through it by now.”</p><p>“Whatever, cake-for-brains.” Egbert sorts his limbs out, and makes his way over to one of the armchairs in the corner of his office. He sinks into it like he belongs there, ankle resting on a knee.</p><p>“Is…that your best insult? I suppose A Series of Unfortunate Events is really higher than what I expected your reading level to be,” Dirk remarks. He hesitates for a moment, before crossing the room to the antique cabinet near the chairs. It doesn’t contain very much- one compartment is a cleverly disguised fridge, the other has various alcoholic gifts, knives, and some sundry supplies in case he ever needs them. He retrieves one glass, and then after a second, another, a bottle of whisky, and a little bucket of ice from the miniscule freezer.</p><p>It’d be rude to not offer anything.</p><p>Dirk settles himself down into the opposite chair, back straight and perched right on the edge, so he can dole out the libations.</p><p>No, he’s not in the mood for any of the more involved activities Egbert may have come here for, but that doesn’t mean he can’t allow himself a moment to rile the other up. It’s always <em>so</em> very fun to tie John all up in knots. Literally and metaphorically, of course. He wears them quite well, better than Dirk might have originally imagined.</p><p>“Have a drink, Mr. Egbert,” he says.</p><p>-</p><p>Have a <em>what</em>?</p><p>“I’m really going to need to pass on that, Mr. Crocker,” John says back. “Now who thinks who’s stupid? I’m not just going to drink something, in your room, that you’re handing me, because who even knows what’s in there?”</p><p>“I know what’s in here,” Dirk points out, one slim finger tapping at the side of the bottle. “You’re welcome to provide your own beverage.”</p><p>He knows full well John <em>hasn’t</em> brought any libations, because since when do they drink together? Or- do anything together that’s not fight and sometimes have hot, awful, angry sex?</p><p>“I’ll drink it if you do,” John finally says. “Same bottle. I open it and pour.”</p><p>“Of course,” he answers, smoothly. The bottle is summarily slid over, the glass rasping against the smooth wood of the coffee table. A second tumbler is set out, heavy crystal by the look of it. There’s no ice to be found; John wouldn’t have asked for it if there were. The seal on the cap breaks after a second of resistance, as it should, and John opens the bottle without much trouble. He pours for himself first, and then for Crocker, waiting for the word to stop. He’s just being polite about it.</p><p>“That’s enough,” Dirk says, after the glass is nearly half full, and that is- way too much, isn’t it? But then again maybe there’s something weird in him that means he can’t get drunk? There’s already stuff in there that means he heals faster and will probably also live longer. John watches his fingers wrap around the glass, and he doesn’t touch his own until he watches Dirk drink, and then swallow, the long line of his neck obscured as always by the collar of his shirt. He can barely see the scar that bisects his neck, a messy, knotted thing that’s years old at least. John’s never asked about it, but he’s always wondered.</p><p>He doesn’t ask now, either. It’s not one he’s put there himself- frustratingly enough, he’s never really managed to land that many hits on Dirk. But, he’s pretty sure that Dirk hasn’t landed all that many on him either. You know, comparatively speaking, when it comes to just deadly force.</p><p>“Worried about poison still, Mr. Egbert? You’ve already seen me drink, you know it’s safe,” Crocker says, a blonde eyebrow perfectly arched above his ridiculous shades.</p><p>John lifts his own glass to his lips, and takes a slow sip that burns its way right down his throat and to his chest.</p><p>And of course Dirk decides now is the best time to add, “Besides, I’d never poison perfectly good single malt. The poison would be on the glass,” all self-satisfied and smug as John nearly <em>chokes</em> on his mouthful.</p><p>It isn’t until John has finished making an ass of himself, all coughing and sputtering, that Crocker says, “I didn’t, though. At worst, I’d drug you and dump you naked in a field somewhere with rude drawings all over your face. If I were to poison you at all, it’d have to be with something slow-acting enough that you’d be able to find the antidote within a reasonable amount of time, or something that would simply make you miserable for a day or two.”</p><p>“Oh, wow, you’ve suddenly got <em>principles</em> about what you poison innocent people with? Incredible,” John says, rolling his eyes. He doesn’t believe a word of that nonsense- except maybe that part about Crocker drawing shitty cartoons all over him and then leaving him in a field for the crows or something. That seems like the kind of thing he’d get a kick out of. “That’s such a ridiculous double standard, you know that?”</p><p>“Is it? You’re hardly innocent,” he points out, arching an eyebrow. “You’ve killed plenty of people before, and your little tantrums put the lives of our workers at risk.”</p><p>“You brainwash your workers on the regular! That’s not better!”</p><p>“I never pretended to be better,” Crocker says, with a smirk that sets John’s blood boiling, almost. He hates seeing him like this, all cold and ruthless and angry- all it does is make him want to tear that façade down even more.</p><p>“You pretend to be better than everyone else,” John says. “All of us, trying to make the world a better place and, y’know, not actively trying to <em>murder </em>it. You are literally actively worse than us.”</p><p>“Sedition and heresy,” is all Crocker drawls out. John knocks back more of his drink. Of course he wasn’t going to get anything sensible out of him. Fucking, corporate sleaze. He doesn’t know why he even bothers sometimes- or why Rose is letting him bother. Why she’s…second-hand bothering?</p><p>He doesn’t even know why this is bugging him at all. He knows what Crocker is, in the end, and no amount of seeing him show actual flickers of <em>something</em> is going to change that. Maybe it’s because it makes it worse, that it rubs in how he’d chosen to do this. And here John is, getting dicked down by him on the regular.</p><p>He downs the rest of his drink.</p><p>That’s just depressing. He can’t even turn it into a joke, that’s how depressing it is. Maybe he needs to branch out into gallows humor or something.</p><p>“Another?” Crocker offers, lifting the bottle slightly. Great. He’s back to sounding almost human again.</p><p>“Yeah,” John agrees. He watches carefully as Crocker pours, the way his fingers curl around John’s glass after it’s nudged over. “Ice too.”</p><p>“Someone’s bossy all of a sudden. Even if it’s just to be a heathen.”</p><p>“Says the one no one’s ever seen drink,” John points out. “Why are you even deciding to do it now?”</p><p>“An experiment to see if you’d drink something I gave you,” Crocker answers, sly. Well, he’s definitely gotten a result from that, even if it might be one that John has to kind of worry about in the future. Just kind of, though. He knows Crocker is about the long game, but that’s a little bit <em>too</em> long.</p><p>“I think you’re lying,” John tells him. He takes another sip, relishes the burn.</p><p>This feels almost intimate. Like they’re just two guys having a drink after work, instead of two people who should be enemies, and who probably should be at each other’s throats instead of just exchanging passive-aggressive barbed comments. It’s like talking to Rose sometimes, it really is, except John doesn’t really feel bad about being a dick to Crocker, because, well. He was a dick first, he usually deserves it.</p><p>“I don’t lie,” Crocker says, obviously lying.</p><p>“Okay, you can try that again, but like. So I believe it.”</p><p>A sigh. “I don’t like lying, but half-truths are technically lies.”</p><p>“See? That’s way better,” John tells him. He takes another sip, and definitely doesn’t cough this time.</p><p>“And I don’t lie to you,” Crocker informs him. “Not about anything important, anyway.”</p><p>John- isn’t sure what that one makes him feel. On one hand, he definitely doesn’t trust it, because it’s a terrible idea to trust it. On the other? He can actually kind of believe it.</p><p>“If I didn’t already know you weren’t physically capable of regular human emotions, I might accuse you of <em>liking</em> me, Mr. Crocker,” John teases. The drink hadn’t been poisoned by any means, but it was <em>strong</em>, and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, his mind pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. He should stop drinking, really.</p><p>“It’s a good thing we both know better then, isn’t it?”</p><p>Something about this is so funny to John that he can’t help but laugh, the tail end of it tilting into a hiccup. They <em>do</em> both know better, don’t they?</p><p>“You- you should be a comedian,” he says. “That was <em>funny</em>.”</p><p>“Alert the media, Dirk Crocker has a sense of humor,” Crocker deadpans, but his tone is easy, more Dirk as John’s come to glimpse lately. He likes this a lot more than the cutting wit- and he does like their banter, to be fair- and the coldness that the other man wraps around himself so often. Dirk’s tie is pulled loose, the first few buttons on his shirt undone to reveal a hint of collarbone, the peek of a scar around his neck. John really, really wants to get his mouth there and leave a whole trail of marks, just to see how he squirms with the feeling of teeth at his throat.</p><p>“I’m not the media but I am very alerted. In fact, I’m alarmed,” John says, seriously. “I didn’t even know you could laugh, how can you make a joke?”</p><p>“I can laugh, I have all the bodily equipment required for it.” Crocker blinks over at him, clearly nonplussed. John just stares back.</p><p>“But I’ve never heard you laugh.”</p><p>“When would you have ever heard me laugh?”</p><p>“We talk! We’re talking now! And I’m plenty funny.”</p><p>“If you say so.” The doubt in his voice could kill, probably. John is unreasonably offended by this; he personally blames it on the demon alcohol Crocker has foisted on him, because Crocker always says that John’s jokes are all terrible.</p><p>“What? What’s with that tone? I made a whole career out of being funny, people think I’m funny.” John ignores how ridiculously petulant he sounds over this. He knows that it’s because Dirk Crocker has terrible taste and probably laughs at things like stabbing people five hundred times or something, but still. His jokes have range. He’s good at what he does.</p><p>“People have no taste,” Crocker counters, because he’s an enormous hypocrite.</p><p>“Just for that, I’m going to make <em>so</em> many jokes around you. You’re going to laugh. Or else.”</p><p>“Or else what, you’ll hold me down and force one out of me?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s how laughter works, bro.”</p><p>“What? No. I’ll. Tickle you or something, shut up.”</p><p>Crocker is quiet for a long moment, before he finally says, “I’m not ticklish, though.”</p><p>“I feel like you waited too long to say that,” John tells him. “So I think that’s a lie. And I’m going to test it.”</p><p>“Are you sure you should be warning me about that?”</p><p>“Yes, because it’ll be way more satisfying if you can’t stop laughing after you’ve been told,” John says, smug.</p><p>“You’re far too obsessed with what my laughter sounds like. I’m sure there’s soundbytes around, I’ve had to do it before,” he says. Dirk slouches a little lower in his chair, that perfect posture finally broken. John’s absurdly pleased to be the cause of it.</p><p>“Yeah, but those don’t count.” He’s going to look all of them up, for sure, once he gets out of here. But that can come later. “They’re not real.”</p><p>“What, you think I lip-synch to the sound of someone else’s laughter?” Dirk sounds so thoroughly bemused by that, but John latches onto the idea for a second, thinking it over. He doesn’t even know if that’s possible, come to think of it, but he wouldn’t put it past Dirk to do it just so he didn’t have to force one himself. “Of course you think that. It’s far less work to just fake a laugh myself.”</p><p>“Oh,” John says, after a second. “But do you? You don’t seem the- kind of person who would do that.”</p><p>“You know very little about what kind of person I am.”</p><p>John thinks about that for a moment. Longer than he intends to; he’s busy watching Dirk’s mouth as he talks, how he says every word like he’s handpicked them and how his pronunciation is perfect. He doesn’t even have any kind of accent, either. His voice would probably be more soothing if he wasn’t a huge dick every time he opened it, and John catches himself wondering if he’s ever done audiobooks or anything, because it’d suit him.</p><p>If he has, it’s probably the kind that’s meant to brainwash people.</p><p>“I know that you’re not what you pretend to be,” John says, smug, once his brain catches on it. “Like. I should be <em>dead</em> fifty times over by now, but I’m not. I know you’re human, under all of- that. I know you’re not what you pretend to be- hey. Hey, look at me, man.” John snaps his fingers, misses. This stuff’s a lot stronger than he’d thought, wow. “I know you, Dirk Crocker. Don’t forget that. Like. Especially not Biblically.”</p><p>God, he’s so funny. And he’s even won this little exchange, because Crocker is being <em>veeeery</em> quiet right about now. It’s not like John gets the upper hand rarely or anything</p><p>“You don’t,” Crocker says, in a voice that John’s brain catches on (unfortunately now thinking it’s kind of hot) only belatedly as dangerous. It’s low, and there’s a smirk on his mouth that’s nearly the mirror of his brother’s, but contained cruelty instead of ready to lash out. Not that John pays that much attention to what Dave Crocker’s mouth does; there’s a whole bunch else to worry about, on the rare occasion that he sees him, and honestly? Tuning that guy out is just for the better. “And you should stop insisting that you do.”</p><p>“No,” John says, stubborn. He usually pays a lot of attention to what Dirk’s saying. Unfortunately, probably. “You should stop isnist- in-sist-ing, sorry, that I don’t.”</p><p>“Mr. Egbert,” Crocker says. That voice again. John tries to marshal his mind into order and <em>not</em> think about how good it would be, Dirk sounding like that while pinning him right to the bed. Oh, man. Sometimes he really hates how Dirk Crocker of all people has somehow managed to awaken so many things in him. Bratty should-be robot, cold corporate prince, putting a sword to John’s throat and giving him a second sexual awakening of all things. Unfair. John sometimes wonders if he’s given the same things in turn, and then he wonders if he’s just flattering himself, but then, well. He doesn’t think Dirk would keep this up if he wasn’t getting something out of it, no matter what the voice inside his head says about long cons and being used.</p><p>There’s been plenty of chances and John knows he hasn’t given anything away. He knows that, and-</p><p>Oh. Dirk’s standing, the movement fluid in a way that John associates with their fights, rare as they are these days. He half-expects to see a sword or another knife in Crocker’s hand, but there’s nothing there but the fabric of his stupid gloves. He basically unfurls from his chair, crosses the distance with two long strides.</p><p>Fingers curl in the front of John’s shirt, and with the way he’s sitting, unsteady, Crocker practically looms over him, all tightly coiled threat.</p><p>Yeah.</p><p>The awakened things are becoming a real inconvenience, right about now.</p><p>“I think you’re just in denial,” he says, because he’s got to push it. And he’s got just enough courage to do it now, when he maybe would’ve chickened out before. Okay, not chickened out, but- decided to postpone it until later. John tips his chin up, just so he can meet Crocker’s eyes through his shades.</p><p>He’s smiling, he knows the expression is too-loose, too-trusting, but that’s just his face right now and Crocker is going to have to deal with it.</p><p>“I could hurt you right now,” Crocker murmurs. “It wouldn’t be hard.” His hands move up, cupping John’s cheeks. They’re warm, even through the layer of smooth fabric. “Just a twist, with enough force to snap your neck. Quick and clean.”</p><p>One hand stays where it is, the other sliding up so those fingers can curl into his hair and just yank his head back. John is suddenly very aware of how fast his heart is beating, how exposed his neck is at this angle. He’s not scared. He’s not-</p><p>“Or like this,” Crocker says, and the hand on his cheek moves too, and John misses the contact more than he should. A whisper of cloth against skin, tracing a straight line right across his throat. “A sharp knife is all it’d take, you know.” That finger pauses, moves up to press against his carotid. “Or a pen, or a pencil, or anything that can push <em>in-</em>,” more pressure, enough that John lets out a quiet, strained sound, “and you’d be bleeding out and I’d be handed an award of some kind. Not that I need any more.”</p><p>The pressure lessens, only to be replaced by the whole of Crocker’s palm, hand wrapped right around his throat, and- okay. This one, John’s already kind of known he was into, just usually on the other end of things.</p><p>“And there’s this, too,” he says, soft as anything. “One good squeeze to crush your windpipe. I wouldn’t draw it out, I don’t think. That kind of struggle is unsightly, and I’ve never liked to play with my food.”</p><p>“But you won’t,” John tells him. He’s quiet, too, and just stupid enough to lean into that hand, daring. His heart skips a fucking beat when Crocker’s fingers <em>do</em> tighten suddenly, cutting his air off and making him wheeze, and this is not how he’s going to die, well on his way to a boner and drunk in Dirk fucking Crocker’s office, no.</p><p>He reaches up and rests his own hand on Crocker’s wrist, and when he guides that hand away from his throat, Crocker lets him without so much of an ounce of resistance, and John knows he’s won. Even if Dirk thinks he’s proved some kind of point with that.</p><p>There’s a faint furrow on his forehead that John just wants to reach up and smooth out with his thumb. He doesn’t, because he kind of thinks he’s been pushing it a lot with this one, even in his current state.</p><p>John knows a few things about dealing with Dirk Crocker by now and the main one is that you have to coax him into things sometimes, so slow he doesn’t have the chance to think too hard about it. Or, you just hit him with them like a folding chair to the back of the head. Also so he doesn’t have the chance to think too hard about it. Because when he starts thinking, and getting into his head? He never stops and then John never gets off and then both of them are annoyed and generally unhappy.</p><p>Huh.</p><p>Maybe Crocker’s also made him more manipulative. But then again, Crocker is also the only person John is even trying to manipulate, and he does a lot of the work himself.</p><p>“See?” John says instead, and grins up at him. This one is a very calculated move, but it’s also very easy to pull off. “I told you so.”</p><p>Bam. Hit him with that and Dirk Crocker can’t not reply, and also can’t not shut John up.</p><p>“Just shut up and kiss me,” Crocker says, and John’s just tipsy enough that he thinks it might actually sound kind of fond? But he’s mostly happy that it’s worked, even if he does suspect that Dirk is just letting him this time around.</p><p>He beams, and drags him in to do just that. Dirk goes in hard at first, all open-mouthed, and makes this fucking adorable noise when John’s just not about that. He doesn’t have the coordination for it right now, and there’s something about the buildup that just gets him. John likes to take it slow sometimes, and he’s never really had the chance to, with Dirk. Or, like, the courage, if he’s being totally honest. Which he’s not. And the kicker is that he knows Dirk likes to draw things out- he already <em>knows</em> the guy is going to enjoy this, even if he complains about indulging him.</p><p>Again with the coaxing. John eases back, and Dirk closes his mouth, and they try again, more tentative this time, and- oh. He might be in trouble.</p><p>(Sober John can worry about that, though. John right now? Is going to take full advantage of this opportunity to just kiss Dirk fucking Crocker senseless, please and thank you, they don’t even need to do anything else, even if Dirk’s in his lap, warm and steady.)</p><p>(Drunk John is trying very hard not to think about how it might actually be kind of heartbreaking, that no one’s kissed this man like this before. It shows, in how hesitant he is, which is a whole new side of Dirk that John really, really likes, too- he gets to be in charge, but he doesn’t have to fight for it, not at all. And okay, he misses that some, but. He’s not really in any shape to do that right now. Maybe he’s just lucky Crocker isn’t pressing any kind of advantage. But he can trick himself into thinking Dirk’s enjoying this too, just as much as he is. Maybe more.)</p><p>Dirk Crocker is, of course, a quick study. But John’s always known that. He settles into the rhythm of it without much trouble, the hesitance melting away for a bit more confidence. Dirk leans in, presses right up against his chest, and John wraps his free arm around his waist and they could be two entirely different people, now. Boyfriends, maybe- no. He’s not going there. They could be just a couple of guys on their second date, or hell, even a casual hookup, getting down to some sloppy makeouts. Well, not that sloppy yet, but when Dirk’s tongue slides right into his mouth, John has to admit they’re getting there. If there’s one thing that humans and trolls can agree on, it’s that sloppy makeouts are the fucking aces. Handshake meme, and all that. He’d laugh, but he’s currently very happily distracted.</p><p>It’s so, so good. And if part of him does kind of wish they were anyone else, just two ordinary dudes, he’ll be blaming that on the alcohol and the fact that he hasn’t made out with someone like this in a long time. It’s deprivation talking, probably, and, well. Dirk’s good at this. It’s easy to get lost in the warm weight of another body against his own, the press of lips and slide of tongue and slim fingers in his hair and gripping just this side of too tight.</p><p>At least until he pulls away, some indefinite amount of time later. John can’t stifle the small noise he lets out in protest. Rude. His eyes linger on Crocker’s mouth, kiss-swollen and red. Whoops. It just looks very kissable.</p><p>“You should get some sleep,” Crocker murmurs, a little breathless. He sounds so good that way, John likes it best. He’s not even trying to move. John makes a vague noise in agreement, probably. The hands in his hair feel so nice.</p><p>“You’ve got nice hands,” he slurs out. “Should get ‘em on me.”</p><p>“They’ve been on you enough. Honestly, I didn’t know you were such a lightweight,” he says, disapproving.</p><p>“I am <em>not</em>.” What? How dare Crocker even suggest that, honestly. It’s an outrage. An insult. John goes to parties, he knows how to handle his bubbly. And okay, that wasn’t bubbly, but the principle still stands. Probably. “You- poisoned me. That’s what happened. With your alcho- alcol, al-co-hol.”</p><p>“You got there in the end.” But that’s a little bit distant; Crocker’s very clearly thinking hard about something. Which John doesn’t think is necessary. He reaches out, attempting to pap his face gently to get his attention. Instead, he pretty much almost smacks his shades off, and it would be a victory if he was sober enough to really relish it. Or see anything.</p><p>“Bro. What the fuck,” Dirk asks, and he sounds so thoroughly disapproving this time that John recoils a little bit.</p><p>“You sound- familiar. Mother hen sitcom,” John tells him with full confidence.</p><p>“You’re not going to be able to get yourself out of here in this state,” Crocker says, with obvious reluctance. Rude. He’s ignoring John’s brilliant analogy.</p><p>“’Scuse you,” John sniffs. “I’ll get myself off here just fine.”</p><p>“That is not what I said. You’re,” and wow, he kind of looks like he’s swallowed a lemon, ha, “going to have to stay the night.”</p><p>John thinks about that for a moment. It’s a bad idea. He knows it’s a bad idea. He knows that Dirk knows that it’s a bad idea. It’s also never happened before, and John’s still got a suspicious part of him thinking ‘okay, but what if this is a trap and he’s going to just stab you or something’, but that part’s very small and the rest of him is tipsy as all hell and <em>tired</em>, and there’s a thousand other chances Crocker’s had to stab him and hand him on over to his mother with an ugly red bow wrapped around his neck or something, and he’s taken none of them. John doesn’t really know <em>why</em> he’s taken none of them, but- Crocker <em>is</em> right here. He can ask.</p><p>“How come you haven’t killed me yet?” There, he’s asked. Crocker now looks like he’s swallowed two lemons, and probably something worse. John doesn’t think he knows his face is doing that, which makes it all the better.</p><p>“It would draw too much attention, obviously, given how outspoken you are,” Crocker says, and John offers a vague hum in response. “While you could easily disappear, no one wants to martyr you. It’d be best if you saw our side of things, but.”</p><p>Dirk doesn’t finish that sentence. He crosses the space between them instead, and easily hauls John up. John sways, the room spins around him. Fuck off, room. He can feel the whole Earth moving under his feet, and it does not want to be stepped on. </p><p>Instead, he lists heavily into Crocker, and tries not to think about why he’s kind of disappointed by that answer.</p><p>“But what?” he mumbles. Crocker’s shoulder is too bony for this to be comfortable, but he doesn’t feel like moving his head.</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>They’re moving anyway- and, okay, John knows he’s technically being dragged, because his legs are clumsy and don’t feel very connected to the rest of his body at the moment, at least not in a way he can control. They’ve moved <em>so</em> far and the ground doesn’t like it.</p><p>John hazards a look back at the couches. They’re following them?</p><p>“Y’said but. Butt.” Ha, butt. Crocker’s butt is very much within grabbing distance, and John’s never been so disappointed in himself as now when he tries to grab it and manages a thigh instead. Well, it’s still good, but not what he wanted.</p><p>“Handsy,” Crocker says. Amused. “But this position is just not sustainable. I’m going to have to carry your idiot ass, aren’t I?”</p><p>“Bwuh?” Yeah, that’s what he meant to say. Definitely that.</p><p>Apparently it translates to some form of assent, because Crocker’s shifting, stepping back and leaving John cold and unsupported for a single, dizzying moment, before he’s being lifted (a more dizzying moment), and there’s an arm hooked under his knees and another one around him (warmer, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to look down.)</p><p>John lets his head loll over to rest on Crocker’s chest. It’s not actually that warm, Crocker sort of runs a bit cooler than John does, and his toes are almost always freezing, but it definitely is warmer than the air and is also more solid, which John appreciates.</p><p>He always forgets that Dirk’s a lot stronger than he looks with his suit on. It really doesn’t do him all that many favors.</p><p>“Your suit owes you,” he says. He closes his eyes, so he doesn’t have to feel Crocker’s steps as much. They’re even and as soft as he can make them, John’s pretty sure. That’s nice. He thinks. Maybe. Probably he just doesn’t want John to hurl all over his suit.</p><p>“You’re going to need to explain that one,” Crocker says, in a tone that asks him kindly to just keep his mouth shut. Nothing about him makes sense.</p><p>“It’s hardly my fault you don’t have the processing power to understand me.” Oh, guess he said that out loud. But it still stands.</p><p>“Prosh- Pross- I’m not a <em>robot</em>,” John finally manages to get his dumb traitor mouth to say. “You’re just. Dumb.”</p><p>“You know, I’ve been called many things, but dumdum isn’t one of them? I almost admire the novelty, if not the creativity.” He’s such a dick, ugh. But Dirk sounds genuinely amused by it, there’s something softer in his voice, and John makes sure this time he only <em>thinks</em> to himself that he likes hearing it.</p><p>
  <strike>He likes being the cause of it even better, but that’s a problem for sober John to work out. He’s got more brain cells, probably, or at least he’s fine doing the thinking. All this John wants is a bed. </strike>
</p><p>Dirk Crocker doesn’t do soft, and he doesn’t do emotions, and that’s just the stone-cold truth. John knows even in this state that if he was going to look up, Crocker’s face wouldn’t have any kind of an expression other than mild annoyance, and that’s if John’s lucky. He sighs, and shifts to smush his face right up in against Dirk’s neck, which isn’t really great, because all he gets is a faceful of starched collar and stupidly complicated knotted tie. And Dirk tensing a little.</p><p>“Shhhh,” John says, reaching up to pap at the side of his face. It’s clumsy, but his fingers find smooth skin and catch only a little on the sharp edge of his stupid shades, so it’s a success. He’s so warm. His skin is soft. John kind of wants to know what routine he uses for it, or if he was just born that way. Maybe it’s Maybelline, maybe it’s CrockerCorp’s horrifying genetic engineering!</p><p>Well. It’d be kind of a lot to do for perfect skin. But he’s still suspicious. This is too soft to be real.</p><p>John honestly isn’t really sure how he’s getting away with this, given that his thumb has decided to secede from his body, grow a brain of its own, and then dedicate itself solely to rubbing along the arch of Dirk’s cheek, but he’s not going to question it. It’s not- he’s drunk, he knows himself well enough to know that he gets kind of touchy when he’s like this. It doesn’t mean anything.</p><p>Crocker is just here, that’s all. And he probably isn’t anything but annoyed with it. John wishes he was blushing just from this, that’d be cute-</p><p>No. No, he does not wish that.</p><p>He is in control of himself, probably, even if his body feels pleasantly loose-limbed and he’s only kind of aware that they’ve been walking for a while through the familiar corridor. It’s clandestine. Ha, that’s a funny word.</p><p>
  <strike>But what if it wasn’t.</strike>
</p><p>His brain is so silly sometimes.</p><p>He doesn’t think too much until the arms that were securing him are suddenly gone, and he’s falling in a single, terrifying moment, bracing to hit the floor and then- crawl off, probably, except he hits a soft, familiar mattress instead, and his brain finally catches up and figures out what’s happening.</p><p>Crocker has dumped him in the bed like he’s a sack of annoying spuds or something, and John nearly gags because his body doesn’t want that bounce, and the room definitely is rebelling against him. Oh, god, fuck. This is the worst.</p><p>“Hhhrgh,” he says. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for everything around him to start behaving and being normal and still.</p><p>“Yes,” Crocker agrees, deadpan. He’s still within grabbing distance, even if he’s no longer touching John.</p><p>“Stay?” he asks, catching Crocker’s wrist, and ignoring the way he tenses at it. Weirdo. He tenses at <em>everything</em>. He’s so tense a masseuse would break their wrists and fingers, probably.</p><p>“…For now. But I’m waking you up in the morning at five, regardless of how hungover you are, and how much you complain. And don’t think this is going to be a regular occurrence, either.”</p><p>Crocker immediately yanks his wrist away, but he remains on the bed, back ramrod straight as he’s perched on the edge of it.</p><p>John knows it’s not going to be- it’s risky, and he’s definitely going to get an earful coming back from this, on top of his hangover, but. Maybe some part of him doesn’t really think it would be that bad, if it <em>did</em> end up as a regular thing.</p><p>The last thing John sees before he falls asleep is Crocker’s face. It’s…not actually that bad a sight.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As always, you can find me on <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/quixxotique">tumblr</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>He's here.</p><p>This one's long as hell, but it's an important chapter, and it's where a *lot* of the more upsetting tags are now applicable. So, trigger warnings for: Abusive &amp; unhealthy relationships, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced brainwashing, blood and gore, violence, <em>torture</em>, and at the end, a sole instance of non-/dubiously consensual drugging. Also references to culling.</p><p>The first half of the chapter (until the '***' and  'Dave sneers down at him') is relatively mild, and the references to brainwashing &amp; abuse are much more oblique. After that, is where the worst of it comes in. I've got a summary down at the bottom anyway.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“There’s my favorite lil guppy,” Mother coos as he steps into the kitchen. She’s baking again, something terribly sweet and incredibly pink, no doubt. Sharp fuschia claws pinch at his cheek, and Dirk can’t help it, he makes a face up at her. Her claws dig in harder, steel-grey fingers framing his jaw, and he’s very much aware of the fact that she could shatter it, if she really wanted to. The points of her claws threaten to break skin, and he smooths his expression out immediately. It’s not particularly composed, and he regrets the slip, but- she’s in a good mood today, it seems. It is easily forgiven.</p><p>She drops her hand, and Dirk resolutely ignores the ache in his cheeks. He’ll likely bruise up, but it won’t last long; it never does.</p><p>“Pleasure to see you too, Mother,” he answers back, offering a smile in return. Nice, a few degrees of warmth to it. Not too much- he isn’t the sentimental kind, and neither is she. Not really.</p><p>“Cod, you gotta loosen up,” she says, shaking her head a little and clicking her teeth. She turns back to the bowl, and Dirk leans slightly against the counter next to her to peer into it. Certainly lurid pink, as expected. “C’mere, you know I ain’t gonna bite you. ‘Less you’re basking for it, but you don’t do that much anymore.”</p><p>He inches closer. “Water you making?”</p><p>“New recipe,” she announces, gesturing around the kitchen at large. “Gotta cook up somefin for those Carapacians to keep ‘em listenin’, they don’t do the Gushers. You believe that, guppy? Not likin’ Gushers?”</p><p>“Seems highly improbable. And likely the end result of some kind of campaign by the other side,” Dirk answers, tilting his head slightly as he glances up at her. It is a campaign by the other side; Lalonde, shadowy thorn in their collective sides as she is, is surprisingly efficient at packing anti-candy propaganda into homoerotic high-fantasy books that could be used as bricks.</p><p>“Bluh, they’re a pain in my royal bass, I’mma tell you that for free.” She shakes her head, fingers curling tighter around the spoon. An ugly look flits across her face, just for a second, before it melts away. “Yo hatchmate’s already on it, ‘fore you get all strategizing on me.”</p><p>“I’d never, unless you asked me to,” he says, mildly. Of course Dave’s on it, though Dirk knows he could do better himself. More focused, at the very least. Far less bloodshed and special stardust. “If you say Dave can handle it, I believe you.”</p><p>“You doubtin’ my judgement, buoy?” she asks. Shit. Dirk straightens up some, reflexive.</p><p>“Of course not. Just doubting Dave’s ability to get the job done. Nothing new there.” And there isn’t, really; Dirk’s never exactly bothered gentling his tongue when it comes to criticizing his brother. She knows this; hell, her favorite game is still playing them off each other. Dirk’s simply used to it- and, well. Dave <em>is</em> annoying. “He still wants to wear shoes inside, after all.”</p><p>“Do <em>naut</em> remind me of that buoy’s straight-up lack’a manners,” Mother says, though her tone’s gentled to something more resigned now, rather than outright dangerous. Dirk lets out a soft exhale. “Would’ve left his bass out to swim with the fishes if he wasn’t so damn charmin’. Don’t gimme that look, guppy.”</p><p>“He’s competent. Sometimes,” Dirk says, grudgingly enough that he knows she’ll find it amusing. She does, a laugh leaving her, raspy as it always is. Dirk used to think it was the best sound in the world, when he was younger. Now, he’s a little more conservative, and has also had the pleasure of going to a few music concerts.</p><p>“Harsh fishtic like always, aint’cha?” Mother still sounds amused, though. “Betta lend that mouth to me for a second, though.”</p><p>“What for?” Dirk asks, blinking a little. “If it’s an elaborate way to tell me to shut up-?”</p><p>“Guppy, if I wanted yo mouth shut I’d break out a needle and thread and practice my embroidery on it, and the boat of us minnow that already. So open up and taste this for me.”</p><p>Dirk glances between her, and the bowl. It’s unlikely to kill him, that’s for certain. And he likes sweet things, he does. Of course he does. And, more to the point, he has absolutely no choice in this.</p><p>“Aw, c’mon, you swam all the way over here buoy you knew water was finna happen,” Mother says, still chirpy for now. She holds up a spoonful of batter, waving it at his face.</p><p>Obediently, Dirk opens his mouth, and in it goes. It’s- sweet of course, the kind that makes his teeth hurt and his tongue rebel, but under that there’s a layer of something artificial and chemical that sticks right to his mouth before it clears.</p><p>“’S not bad,” he says, after a moment, once he’s managed to actually swallow it down. “Texture could- cod- be betta.”</p><p>Mother frowns a little, and scoops a bit from the bowl to taste herself, just licking it off a finger. Her fins flare a little.</p><p>“You’re right, minnow, coddammit. Gonna need to fix the entire batch. Ain’t no one told you being a straight motherfuckin’ confectionary genius was this much work.” She eyes the batter like it’s personally offended her, and better that than Dirk, to be honest. It’s certainly personally offended him.</p><p>“I’ll give you a shoulder rub afterwards if you want,” he offers. He’d like some soda to rinse the taste out, but it’s best not to. Its list of ingredients is scrolling across his shades now; he’ll need to double-check the link between that and his bioware, but he was right in that none of it would hurt <em>him</em>. Whether or not it’ll be more compatible with Carapacian tastebuds than his own is a different question.</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em> yes, momma needs that,” she agrees instantly. “Knew I kept you around for a reason. Bin this shit, guppy, I gotta basserole in the oven for dinner and it needs checking.”</p><p>Dirk bins that shit. It’s vile, and the casserole sounds much, much more appetizing.</p><p>He brings the empty bowl to the sink to start washing it, pushing his sleeves all the way up. He rarely wears gloves at home; Mother understands the necessity for it elsewhere, but here, she likes the reminder of just how much he belongs to her. That, or she’s incredibly salty about not being able to wear them herself without her claws getting in the way. Both are possible.</p><p>Water peels the batter off the sides of the bowl in thin pink stripes, and it collects in a pool in the sink drain’s slots. Dirk scrubs the residue off once, twice, three times, before popping the bowl into the dishwasher to be properly cleaned off from whatever was in there. The dishwasher, granted, is basically an autoclave, but no one wants cross-interactions from the different batches of what she’s been cooking up.</p><p>“Mind if I have some soda?” he asks her afterwards, gesturing at the fridge.</p><p>“Go ahead, guppy,” she says, agreeably. “And you betta gill me in on what’s goin’ on, too.”</p><p>He opens up the fridge and cracks open a can of orange Faygo for himself. The flavor’s been made especially for him, and it’s actually half-decent as compared to the rest. God forbid he even catch a whiff of that <em>grape</em> shit.</p><p>She saunters over to the living room and Dirk trails after her, minding the mass of hair that follows her. Mother drapes herself in an armchair tailored specifically to her, and gestures for Dirk to come closer and circle around behind her. Shoulder rub time it is. He snags a coaster and sets his soda down, and she sweeps her hair to cascade down the front of her so he can get at her shoulders.</p><p>“’Course. I spoke to the Dignitary the other day-,” and he ignores the flash of memory of an inebriated John Egbert in his arms, a hand cupping his face, smoothing across his cheek with clumsy, stupid gentleness. His hands smooth over rough, cold skin, and that’s enough of a sensory difference to help, “-about the Carapacian matter. The dissidents will be exterminated, of course, but the batch issue needs to be investigated further. He’s going to inspect the factory, and Noir’s heading off to cull the rest of them and track any runners down that the Drones won’t have found. I think someone might need to pay a visit to the labs to check them, and we definitely need to up quality control to make sure it doesn’t happen again, but-,”</p><p>“Guppy, please. O-fish-ally, you gotta stop. This is what I get for lettin’ all proper dudes run shit instead of nasty clowns,” she sighs, all dramatic as she interrupts him. Her head dips forward, the nape of her neck exposed, the barest hint of delicate fuschia at her gills visible. Dirk traces along the vertebrae there finding knots and pressing in to work through them.  “Yeah, yeah, I get you got your bidness to attend to ‘cause I told you to attend to it, and you actually fuckin’ listen, but hey. You’re home. It’s finner. Drop that shit like it’s hot.”</p><p>“Yes, Mother. But- I’ll put it in a report?”</p><p>“<em>Fin</em>,” she concedes, with a ruffle to his hair, “But only ‘cause I gotta read it anyway. And you best be puttin’ your quad status in there too.”</p><p>“<em>Mother-</em>,”</p><p>“Nah, nah, guppy, I wanna know what <em>you</em> been up to. Your brother’s got too many fishes in the sea with his messy quadrant-smearin’ bass and lemme tell you he won’t shut his trap, pike I wanna know what all his nasty business is, but you? When you gonna tell me aboat all that, huh?”</p><p>“There’s nothing to say, really. We both know I’m not capable of anything flushed, and even if I was, it’d just get in the way. The latter stands for the other three, too.”</p><p>“Uh huh. Like you ain’t been pitch-flirtin’ with Noir? And waterever the fuck you and yo hatchmate got going on?”</p><p>“Everyone pitch-flirts with him. He’s real easy to wind up,” Dirk admits, still flustered, but certainly shameless about that. “And it’s all platonic hatred between me and Dave, don’t worry. He can’t stand that I have multiple brain cells, I can’t stand that he’s an ostentatious fuckwad with no concept of propriety or manners. He drew an entire dick on my desk, the other day. In permanent marker, like a wriggler. There’s no challenge there, just plain annoyance.”</p><p>“He’s real good at annoyin’,” she sighs out. Dirk presses his thumbs in hard, feeling out a particularly stubborn knot. “Pike, where the fuck did he get that from? Ain’t me.”</p><p>“He’s Dave,” Dirk says, as if that’s an explanation. It’s certainly the only one he has for how insufferable his brother can be.</p><p>“Least he’s fun,” Mother says, her voice distinctly teasing now. “Man knows how to take that stick right outta his bass and let loose. You ain’t never partied with me, guppy, why’s that?”</p><p>“Who’s going to do the work if all three of us are hungover?” Dirk asks, shaking his head a little. “I’m the wet blanket of the family, sorry.”</p><p>“Real responsibubble, that’s for shore. Never get anyfin done without your bass managing it. Now. You anglin’ for a diamond with my Dignitary? He’d treat yo ass right, a real gentleman,” she asks, raising an eyebrow. Mother is particularly focused on this point today, and Dirk doesn’t let his hands falter. He doesn’t think she knows- and if she does, it certainly isn’t the entire story, else there would have been something significantly more harmful in that batter.</p><p>Dirk’s still got his defenses ready- he’s allowed his own liaisons, Dave has done <em>far</em> worse, and it could give them an in, but the damning thing isn’t that John is visiting, the damning thing is that John Egbert hasn’t walked out of there with a CrockerCorp TiaraTop<sup>TM</sup> on his head and a wide, guileless business smile on his face, and for that, Dirk knows he doesn’t have an excuse she’d find acceptable. He doesn’t have an excuse <em>he</em> finds acceptable, beyond what is now an increasingly flimsy desire to get real information out of him.</p><p>“I think he’s got his hands full with Noir,” Dirk points out. “And I’m not that in need of a pale partner.”</p><p>“Naw, guess not. You do aight on your own. Nofin in your flushed?”</p><p>“I’m married to the job?”</p><p>“No mothafuckin’ clowns tryna get at you?”</p><p>“…Not that I’m encouraging,” he hedges. “The paint’s a bit much. And I’m not messing around with anyone who regularly honk in casual conversation.”</p><p>“Good buoy,” she purrs. Mother smiles with all her teeth- and that isn’t an inconsiderable amount. “Those motherfuckers are <em>cray</em>fish.”</p><p>“Completely fuckin’ batshit,” Dirk agrees. “That why your shoulders are more knotted up than a sailor’s rope?”</p><p>“Cod. Prob-ab-ly. A beach can’t have it all these days. Shell, a beach can’t even have half’a what she wants.”</p><p>“The struggle is real,” Dirk says solemnly. His thumbs move lower, dig into the meat of her shoulders, her skin cool to the touch even through her shirt.</p><p>“<em>That</em> is the fuckin’ ticket,” she sighs out. “Now, guppy, you shore you not finna get anyone in your quads?”</p><p>“Of course,” Dirk tells her. Smooth, even. He works the knots from her shoulders, keeping his touch as firm as she usually likes it. His heartbeat is even, his breathing remains the same. She doesn’t know. She can’t know; Mother is patient, of course, but never with any misbehavior on his part. And his…current interactions with one John Egbert count as more misbehavior than anything else he’s done in his life.</p><p>(Part of him does want to tell her, because she’s asked, because he knows she cares. She has to, right? Part of him even thinks she’d be proud of him for getting into a stable pitch romance- or as close to one as he can manage, with Egbert being himself. She’d understand why he didn’t press his advantage if he told her, because that’s not something you do to your kismesis. You don’t maim them, you don’t let the balance of power shift too much for too long, and you certainly don’t take them prisoner and hand them over to your Mother because they’re a problem element in her plans. The rest of him, though? The rest of him knows better. Because nothing is meant to come ahead of the job, not for him. So he keeps his mouth shut and ignores that flicker of guilt and concern and he does not fucking panic.)</p><p>“Have you seen Dave’s latest ad?” he asks instead, injecting just enough disdain into his tone that he knows she’s going to have to answer. It is, of course, likely to be one brimming with positive feedback that Dirk can’t argue with. Not because she’s playing favorites- she never does, for too long-, but because he’s seen it himself and he can grudgingly admit that it’s well-executed.</p><p>“’Course,” she scoffs. “Move a lil’ to the left- yeah, right there, minnow. He did good with that one. Made my bass look fly as shell.”</p><p>He moves a little to the left, finds a wicked mess of a knot there.</p><p>“I’ve got no comment on that,” he says dryly. “Or on the motivations that may or may not exist for his focus on your bass, and how Oedipal they are.”</p><p>Mother cackles, shaking her head. “Buoy, you ain’t never had ‘no comment’ on anything a single day in your life.”</p><p>“You know me too well. But I’ll agree that he did a good job. Reception seems positive, and it’s certainly stirred up online support. He runs a good smear campaign, I have to admit. Grudgingly, of course.”</p><p>“He fuckin’ roasted that bitch Lalonde, is what he did,” Mother says, with not a small amount of satisfaction. She’s always taken Lalonde’s crusade against the Company more personally than she has anyone else speaking out against it, but Dirk can hardly blame her. The rest are just small fish; Lalonde is a shark with a pen and a penchant for allegory.</p><p>Allegedly, anyway. He’s yet to read any of her novels, not that he wants to pollute his mind with cheap Gothic horror. Not that he has the time to read for pleasure these days, not even from the curated titles in the Company archive.</p><p>“And her friends,” Dirk adds. “Do you want me to do your back, too? You’re more knotted up than I’d expected.”</p><p>“Got moray of those than a sailor’s rope,” she grumbles. “Naw, though. Don’t gotta worry about it, guppy. Finner’s gonna start in a bit, and yo hatchmate’s just gonna put them right back in.”</p><p>Dirk pauses for a split-second, before he can control himself. He knows she notices.</p><p>“Dave’s coming?”</p><p>“Aw, guppy, stop bein’ a lil beach about it.” He can practically hear her roll her eyes this time around. “You two betta behave, you hear me?”</p><p>“Yes, Mother,” he says dutifully. “But if he starts something, I will finish it.”</p><p>She smiles, all teeth. Dirk offers a polite smile in return.</p><p>“Didn’t raise you any different, buoy. Now you gonna braid my hair or what?”</p><p>He is, in fact, going to braid her hair. She passes him a comb from her syalladex, all gold with mother-of-pearl inlays, or something similar, along with a small pot of oil. Well, it’s small for her, it sits heavily in the palm of Dirk’s hand. She’s had both of these for as long as he can remember.</p><p>He starts with the comb first, sectioning her hair off into more manageable bunches.</p><p>“Two, like usual?” he asks, glancing down at her.</p><p>“Shell yeah. Just the wave I pike it,” she confirms. Mother’s eyes are closed behind her glasses, and Dirk steps to her left to work on the first section, carefully dipping his fingers into the oil to work it through her hair. The strands are thick and heavy, utterly unlike the texture of any human hair he knows, and they bunch together easily. She doesn’t quite <em>need</em> the oil, but it smells sweet and vaguely nutty, rich, and it helps get rid of tangles. Dirk starts to comb, the routine familiar by now.</p><p>“There’s a gala in a coupla days,” she says, after a moment. Dirk hums noncommittally. He hasn’t seen it on his calendar as of yet, but Mother can organize an extravagant party faster than anyone he knows, and she wouldn’t if she didn’t need to.</p><p>“What do you need me to do there?” The teeth of the comb are pearlescent and shockingly bright against the inky black of her hair. This process takes ages, but Dirk has gotten much better at it for practice. It is, without a doubt, one of his favorite things to do for her, though he’s bright enough not to say it. Dave isn’t patient enough for this kind of delicate work.</p><p>“Be yo usual charmin’ shell-f,” she tells him.</p><p>“Oh, I’ll do my best to smile and wave and make appropriate noises at- mm. Who are we charming, specifically?”</p><p>“If you reely wanted, you could go get some’a them tech buoys back on our side,” she says, considering. “I’d pike that. Elon’s gettin’ on my last nerves. That motherfucker’s like sand in my suit and I have had it with him.”</p><p>“He reminds me of a naked mole rat,” Dirk agrees. More oil, and he’s nearly done with this section. Despite its riot of curls and waves, Mother’s hair rarely tangles in ways that can’t be sorted out by a few more determined passes of the comb.</p><p>Mother cackles, though, slapping her knee. “Guppy, you are abshoalutely right. The old man woulda eaten you up, y’know that?”</p><p>Dirk is not very familiar with the ‘old man’ beyond the enormous book that occupied a place of primacy in his room growing up, and a few old black and white comedy sets featuring a man with compact white curls and a goatee. He’d seemed affable enough, if shockingly normal- Dirk still isn’t sure how he managed to marry Mother, when it comes down to it. But he did have a wicked sense of humor, and so does she.</p><p>“Hopefully not literally,” Dirk quips instead. “I think you’ve got the sole right to that, at this point.”</p><p>“Damn strait I do,” she agrees, vehement. “He was a riot at those parties, buoy, pike you wouldn’t believe.”</p><p>“I would have liked to meet him,” he says. Dirk is hesitant about telling her that at all; not because it is a perceived weakness, but because it’s quite rare for her to bring him up like this. She really must be in a good mood, and part of him may even pity the poor soul who had to be sacrificed to cause it. Or, who may currently still be locked in the basement. But he’s precisely selfish enough to be glad that it isn’t him.</p><p>She just hums, the noise low and near hypnotic, even on land. It thrums through his bones and settles itself comfortable and heavy between his ribs, a knife gently slid in.</p><p>“So. The gala,” she continues, after a moment. “You and yo hatchmate are gonna be there. Whole time, and don’t you forget to wear yo crowns.”</p><p>Dirk is very practiced at not letting his disdain for that show. <em>That</em> is a sure way to ruin any kind of good mood.</p><p>“Of course,” he says. Smooth as anything. “Would you like me to wear mine all day, or just from when I get ready and through the entire party?”</p><p>A flash of teeth, and her fins flick. She’s considering it, which is interesting- the party must be important, for more than just schmoozing some tech bros. As he’s grown older, Dirk has had to wear that thing less and less, but she still has him break it out for special events. He hates it and what it does to him, but he’s never once been allowed to meddle with it.</p><p>(He used to wonder if Dave hated it too, but it makes Dave much, much more tolerable to deal with. Which is why Mother sometimes makes him wear it for dinners, or meetings, or just about anything. Betta than a muzzle, she often says, and Dirk pretends not to see the panic that swirls behind Dave’s shades. That, he thinks, is him projecting. Dave’s not capable of that.)</p><p>“Whole party and when you’re netting all dressed up,” she tells him. Decisive. Dirk just nods, and doesn’t say a single thing about how he doesn’t want to at all. He’ll do it- he doesn’t have a choice. And she’ll know it if he tries to postpone it, of course; he’s learned that the hard way.</p><p>“Alright,” he answers. He moves on to the next section, leaving the first gleaming and smooth, ready to be woven into a tight braid. “Black tie as usual?”</p><p>“Oh, don’t you worry, buoy, I’mma mako you somefin reel pretty to wear,” Mother reassures him. “You and yo hatchmate gonna look just fin. Not as fin as me, shore, but.”</p><p>“No one could manage that,” Dirk says solemnly.</p><p>“Guppy, you been spending wave too much time with that Dignitary of mine,” she says. “You got the same wave of flattering.”</p><p>“Is that a bad thing? You already know we get along. He’s the only one who actually does work around there, Mother, it’s ridiculous,” Dirk huffs. “Well, he’s the only one who doesn’t make more paperwork than he fills out. And he fills things out properly, too. Which shouldn’t be such a difficult thing to ask, and yet here we are. The bar at the bottom of the Mariana Trench and Dave is the one who put it there.”</p><p>“You didn’t complain half as much when you were in R&amp;D with all them whitecoat nerds,” Mother says, but it’s fond.</p><p>Dirk shrugs a little. “I liked it there. It was a simpler time, an easier time.”</p><p>“A time without yo brother?”</p><p>“That too. Is he still banned from the labs?”</p><p>“Ha! That buoy ain’t never gonna get <em>un</em>banned how he keeps carrying on.”</p><p>“Fair,” Dirk says, with no small amount of satisfaction. “He deserves it. Honestly, if he were anyone else, he’d be banned from society altogether. Are you sure we can’t bring that back, Mother? Ritual shunning and stoning? He’s already stoned half the time, it wouldn’t be that hard a cognitive leap.”</p><p>Dirk’s toeing the line very carefully now; there’s only so much shit-talking of Dave he can do that Mother will tolerate, but he keeps his voice nice and light so she doesn’t know quite how sincere he is about it. She suspects, of course, but she doesn’t <em>know</em>.</p><p>“Guppy, one bay, but that bay ain’t fish one,” she sighs, shaking her head. Dirk makes a soft, chastising noise when it jostles her hair, and she just laughs. “Coddamn, I alwaves forget how fussy you are. Complete opposite of yo hatchmate, y’know that?”</p><p>“Not sure- shore- that’s a huge surprise,” he admits freely. “Dave and I are two very different people. I have manners. He fucks clowns.”</p><p>Mother wrinkles her nose, lets out a low chirr of displeasure. Or disgust. He’s not sure.</p><p>“Buoy, that ‘clownfish daddy’ is <em>naut</em> anyfin I ever wanted to hear,” Mother says. She doesn’t shake her head again, but it’s definitely disgust in her voice. “I’m fin with them nasty-ass clowns, but ain’t down to clown that wave, I’mma tell you that.”</p><p>“He spends a lot of time in the Carnival,” Dirk tells her with a shrug. “I figure it hasn’t melted his brains out yet because he doesn’t have any to begin with, but the real reason’s probably more to do with you than with him.”</p><p>Mother’s head tips back, and she laughs again. “Damn right it’s got fuck all to do with him. You buoys are durable as <em>fuck</em>, made you that wave for good reef-son.”</p><p>“Of course,” he agrees with a nod. “Do you mind shifting a bit? I need to do the next section.”</p><p>She turns, obliging, hair presented neatly to him. Mother examines her claws while he gets to work on this, and Dirk’s eyes skitter away from how sharply the light catches them. He’s got other things to focus on now.</p><p>“Your nails look nice,” he says anyway, because she doesn’t need to know how the sight of them makes his gut churn. No one needs to know that particular weakness. “Did you get them done recently?”</p><p>Predictably, Mother preens, and holds her hand up with her fingers splayed wide so he can get a better look. He doesn’t particularly want to, but he gives them a dutiful glance anyway.</p><p>“You alwaves notice the lil things, minnow,” she purrs. “I did. Spent a whole hour on these babies, and don’t they look fintastic?”</p><p>“They sure do. The color’s real nice.” It’s more of a coral, peachy shade than her usual deep, royal tyrian, but it softens her a little. “You get them done up for the gala?”</p><p>“Shore did, buoy. Gotta impress those finvestors,” she nods. From her tone, Dirk knows she’s smiling, and that it’s all teeth.</p><p>“I think they’re impressed enough as is. Especially in the nautical sense of the term,” Dirk tells her. Mother laughs, quiet. “But even if they weren’t, who could tell you no?”</p><p>No one, that’s who. Mother has built her empire here from the ground up, boxed cake by boxed cake, and no one can say otherwise. And it’s more than fucking paid off, with how she’s running the show with an iron fist. Dirk used to wonder what she had planned in the long-run, what his place in all of it would be. He doesn’t wonder anymore.</p><p>“Exactly. I run this whole show buoy, and ain’t none of them are finna forget that anytime soon.”</p><p>Dirk isn’t going to forget it, either.</p><p>“I don’t think they could if they tried,” Dirk says, entirely honest about that. And- he doesn’t. He doesn’t understand why anyone would even bother trying to fight against her, when she’s already won. She’s here, there’s no reclamation, just a shitty, corrupt world that’s not worth martyring yourself for. But it is one worth transforming and making better, and Dirk- well. He has to believe that’s what he’s doing, doesn’t he?</p><p>“The sooner that <em>Lalonde</em> bitch learns that the betta,” Mother says, a snarl threading right through her voice. The threat of it thrums in the air, and the hair at the back of Dirk’s neck stands up despite himself. He’s tense for a split-second before he reminds himself to exhale, let it go, it’s not directed at him.</p><p>“She will,” Dirk says, soft. It’s not as threatening, doesn’t have half the vitriol that Mother’s and Dave’s voices have when they speak of her, but it’s a promise in its own way, even if it feels hollow to make. It’s what he has to say, and Dirk is very good at saying what he has to say. “We’re chipping away at her support, you know that. It’s only a matter of time before she reaches the wrong end of your trident. She can talk all she likes, and write however many novels she wants, but that won’t save her in the end.”</p><p>Or Dave’s sword, he doesn’t say, although if that outcome were to happen, he thinks Dave likely would be made to suffer for it more than he has before. Lalonde is Mother’s to kill, at the end of the day. And while Dirk doesn’t know why, it most certainly is personal.</p><p>“That’s the fuckin’ spirit.” There’s a vicious satisfaction in her voice, and she’s still coiled as if ready to strike, even as she reclines against the back of the armchair. “Speakin’ of all that. There fishscious rumors afoot aboat us, buoy?”</p><p>“Never,” he tells her, and gives her a smile that’s all teeth. He knows she likes it when he does that, and he likes it too- it’s conspiratorial, the closest to genuine he’ll ever get, the two of them against the world. Dave’s there too, probably, but that’s less important. “Only Company-sanctioned ones, of course. Any fun Dave and I might have with each other is off the books. Hooks?”</p><p>She clicks her tongue. “Naw. But nice try, guppy. That Twitter fin is dumb as all hell but it’s reel entertaining to see what y’all get up to there. You think I should mako one?”</p><p>“A personal one?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>“Mmhm. Spread the word all direct. I’ve already got my Finstagram,” she says. “Also. I’m buyin’ that shit. Twitter ain’t a good name, you and me, we’re gonna do betta. Naut pike that’s hard, we <em>are</em> betta, but no bird shit.”</p><p>“No bird shit. Aquatic themes only,” he agrees. “We’ll brainstorm it. Dave’ll have a fit.”</p><p>“Yo hatchmate would be part of this if he wouldn’t make it reel nasty,” Mother says. “How’s Fisher?”</p><p>“I pike it. My idea was ‘Hooked’, but I think we’ve got other stuff under that name already. Mostly shows, if I remember right.”</p><p>“Fisher it is, then. We’ll get a reel cute pikon for it too.”</p><p>He hums, and moves on to the next section, Mother turning again for him to reach it.</p><p>“Do you want a crown braid across the top?” he asks, lightly tracing the path of where it would go with one finger.</p><p>“Naw, guppy, don’t worry aboat that one. Just keep doin’ water you’re doin’.”</p><p>“No problem.”</p><p>He doesn’t need to be told twice. A comfortable quiet descends on them as Dirk works and Mother hums quietly to herself, the noise low and throaty and something he’s always associated with <em>safe</em> and <em>home</em> even if he knows he shouldn’t. But when it’s like this, when it’s the two of them enjoying each other’s company and his hands in her hair, slick with oil and working out all the knots, everything else seems so far away.</p><p>He used to do this when he was young, too, work the tail ends of her hair into little braids as he trailed after her, between meetings, from lab to torture room and then back again. It helped to have something to do with his hands, and she’d rarely chastise him for it. She’d taught him how to braid her hair properly instead, and though it’s a nervous habit he’s long grown out of, he still likes doing it when they’re in private. Whether or not Mother enjoys it, or if this is some indulgence on her end that allows him this doesn’t matter; it doesn’t change that she’s letting him do it. The motive rarely matters when the ends are what they are.</p><p>Dirk works efficiently, taking care not to pull too hard on a particularly stubborn knot, and just using the sharp, pointed end of the comb to try and unpick it. It’s work that his hands can do but his mind can remain blank for, and Dirk has always been happy to slip into this quiet oblivion.</p><p>At least until it’s rudely interrupted.</p><p>There’s a knock at the door, sharp and jaunty, and Dirk suppresses the urge to groan. He doesn’t go and get it, though. He knows who it is, and Mother hasn’t dismissed him yet, and more to the point- there’s something very pleasant about making Dave wait, when he gets squirmy about being even a fraction of a second late to something.</p><p>(Dave’s definition of late, of course, consists of ‘past the time that <em>he</em> decided to show up’, but when Mother comes into the equation, punctuality for the stated arrival time suddenly becomes his strong suit.)</p><p>He takes his time making sure this second braid is even and neat, tying it off with the provided band, and takes a step back to survey his work.</p><p>“How do I look?” Mother asks. She smiles wide, and even with braids that should convey the impression of innocence, she looks absolutely deadly. Dirk smiles back, approving.</p><p>“Like you could use them to strangle someone and then have the corpse as a hair accessory afterwards,” he tells her, honest. She laughs, loud and delighted.</p><p>“Aw, you minnow just water to say,” she coos. Dirk submits to another pinch of his cheek as she gets up, and he follows to wash his hands of the oil. It clings uncomfortably slick to his fingers, and he doesn’t want to leave smudged fingerprints on any of the pristine white surfaces inside. Especially not the doorknobs.</p><p>“I’m going to get the door,” he informs her, once his hands are oil-free and dry. “I think Dave’s here, and if we keep him waiting too long, he’ll start causing property damage again.” He does his best not to sound outright disapproving, and largely succeeds. It’s a fine line to tread when it comes to her, but it’s one he’s gotten much better at over the years. He hopes.</p><p>“Aboat damn time. Don’t gimme any kinda look like that, guppy,” she says, wagging a finger at him. “You and yo hatchmate need to sort that shit out but I’m only basskin’ this once.”</p><p>She always asks for this.</p><p>“We’re not going to hold hands and sing Kumbaya,” he says, finally.</p><p>“Guppy, not even <em>I</em> was finna expect that from you. You tell that buoy to go right down to the bassment, you hear me? Whale, you betta go with him, mako shore he gets all the kelp he needs. Finner’ll be ready in half-hour, and if you buoys are bait, I’ll be reel upset.” The implication is enough.</p><p>The basement, though. And a time limit. This feels suspiciously like a test of some kind, and Dirk doesn’t know what it is. Not yet, anyway. His shades flicker to life so he can track Dave’s movements over the past few hours, even as he turns to head to the door. Hm. He’s been in LA- now that’s interesting, too.</p><p>“Leashing Dave is never easy business,” Dirk tells her. “But I can convince him to take a break if we don’t have what we need by then.”</p><p>“You’ll have it,” Mother says.</p><p>Dirk doesn’t do more than nod in answer. He strides over to the door, swings it open to greet his least favorite relative.</p><p>***</p><p>Dave sneers down at him, and Dirk makes absolutely no effort at any greeting, only stepping aside to let him in.</p><p>“Kept me waiting long e-fuckin’-nough, didn’t you? What, were you too busy getting spanked or some shit? Ha, as if little miss perfect over here would ever even get so much as a slap on the wrist- oh, wait, that’s not true. You were such a defiant brat, but grinding that outta you was a fuckin’ pleasure.”</p><p>Dirk also ignores all of that, which is the best way to deal with Dave- and, conveniently, to wind him up in the same breath.</p><p>His brother’s dressed for dinner, but his suit is rumpled, and his tie loosened. There’s also the notable fact that he’s carrying a burlap sack slung across one shoulder like some deranged version of Santa Claws, and a solid quarter of it is soaked through with blood. A glance down reveals that it is, in fact, going to drip on the floors. Well, it’s better than the usual trail Dave leaves.</p><p>“You’re going to need to clean that up,” he says instead. Dave shoves past him to get inside, and dark red lands in perfect circles on the floor. “Mother wants you to take that down to the basement.”</p><p>“Nah, you’re gonna do it. ‘S all you’re good for anyway,” Dave says, casual. He does move, at least, hustling right down to the stairwell. “Hey, ma, your favorite son’s here. Hell, you could even say I’m your Daverite, if you wanted to, but wavorite’s more your deal, ain- isn’t it?”</p><p>“Buoy, I know I heard yo hatchmate tell you to get that shit into the bassment and it betta not be drippin’ on my floors.” Mother appears in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed firmly over her chest, eyes narrowing behind her glasses. Dirk is very much amused to see Dave tense, and visibly rein in a flinch. It must show, because Dave unsubtly gives him the middle finger. Dirk resists the urge to reach out and twist it until it breaks, but just barely. That kind of petty cruelty isn’t something he’s usually interested in, but as with many things, Dave is the exception.</p><p>“Let’s go, bro,” Dirk prompts, just on the edge of sardonic. His tone deliberately apes Dave’s more insolent one, turns it into less of an artful drawl and more of a whine, and he can tell it gets under his brother’s skin. Good. “You can lick the floors clean afterwards like a good boy, but we’ve got business to attend to, and we can’t be late for dinner.”</p><p>Dave sneers, the expression ugly, but he doesn’t offer a single word of protest. He’s finally employed the lone brain cell knocking around his head to read the angles of intent on Mother’s face, apparently. He immediately heads for the stairs, long strides that Dirk has to walk slightly faster than usual to keep up with. He doesn’t step in any of the drops of blood pooling on the floor.</p><p>“She say which room?” Dave asks, and the sack starts to wriggle and shift as they step into the discreet elevator disguised as a closet on the main floor. Dirk dislikes being in any kind of enclosed space with his brother, but this is downright intimate, cramped already without their third in the sack and Dave’s suffocating habit of filling up every room he enters with his presence. His desperation for attention is pathetic, and Dirk has no problem reminding him of this.</p><p>Perhaps not now, though. He contents himself with a kick right at the sack, and something crunches under the toe of his shoe. Can’t be anything important, though, since a low muffled noise starts up.</p><p>“My foot slipped,” he says, unrepentant, by way of explanation. Dave snorts.</p><p>“Yeah, and he just ran into my sword, officer, I swear, just like you’re gonna do in T-minus five seconds whether you know who I am or not, because you’re being real fuckin’ inconvenient and I don’t give a shit whether or not you’re on the payroll. Like, damn, dude, all cops are bastards, it doesn’t matter if you’re one of ours, you specifically are a bastard for getting in my way, don’t you know I got a hot piece of- Mom’s making what, again, for dinner?” Dave asks, pausing for a second. He jabs the button for sublevel 13, and Cardi B starts blasting immediately from the speakers. Dirk taps his foot along to the sick beats.</p><p>Get a bucket and a mop, indeed. They’re going to need one, after this.</p><p>“Casserole,” he says. “It’s in the oven, she says we’ve got a half hour.” The or else doesn’t really need to be added on to that, and despite Dirk’s even tone, Dave’s shoulders tense. Of course Mother is the one to get those reactions out of him, even secondhand.</p><p>“Damn my dedication to being on time for shit,” Dave clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, in what Dirk thinks is probably supposed to be some kind of gesture of shame. It’s not genuine, Dave is chronically incapable of being ashamed of anything, for one, and secondly- nothing Dave does is genuine. “Call my ass Cronus if you really want to because I am all over that time shit, don’t you know, a wizard is never late, he arrives exactly when he means to.”</p><p>“That’s not mythological, that’s Gandalf,” Dirk points out. It’s snotty and pedantic, but Dave hates being wrong, and he hates it especially when Dirk points it out. There’s no doubt in his mind that he’s going to suffer for it later, but after all those questions about quadrants- Dave is right here as a punching bag. Dirk knows he acts the part often enough that it’s time to change things up, at least verbally.</p><p>“Yeah, we get it, you’re a certified nerd, alert the fuckin’ media- oh, wait, I am the media, and I’m alarmed but not surprised, gonna run some ads in the paper about Dirk Crocker, perpetual virgin versus Chad Dave Crocker, busting out of his suit so buff he’s basically the Incredible Hulk, which, coincidentally, is a fuckin’ excellent name for my dong since it’s huge.” Gross. Not that he thinks Dave is wrong; unfortunately, Dave has had some very interesting sartorial choices in the past years, and three of them have included pejazzles. The world knows the size of his dong, no matter how much it probably doesn’t want to.</p><p>“Really?” Dirk asks. “I thought that’s because it turned green.”</p><p>“Least my balls ain’t blue from misuse.”</p><p>“Blue balls are infinitely better than a fungus. But hey, maybe it’s not, maybe it’s flesh-eating bacteria. Those are neat, don’t you think?” He’s very much satisfied to see Dave suppress a grimace; his brother doesn’t look it, but he can be terribly squeamish about certain things, especially when applied to his own person.</p><p>Some of it, Dirk understands. But others? Well. He really, really doubts that Mother set flesh-eating bacteria on Dave’s dick at any point in time. Maybe she should, though.</p><p>The elevator doors open, thankfully sparing him from more of Dave’s nonsense. The bag squirms harder, its occupant potentially sensing that they’re about to have a really fucking bad time.</p><p>Dirk’s quiet as he trails his brother through the maze of corridors that comprise the house’s underbelly. These aren’t the labs, but there’s rooms upon rooms for interrogations and worse, and an incinerator waiting at the end of one of the long, long hallways, constantly fired up. It always reeks here, of ash and burnt meat. Dirk has long since stopped thinking about it. It’s better not to.</p><p>(He remembers the first time he’d seen it, clinging to Mother’s leg and peering into the bright, bright flames. His hands had still been wet. It had taken a long, long time to scrub out the blood crusted under his nails. He’d vomited after, he remembers, and Dave had blackened his eye for it and broken his nose. He doesn’t do that anymore.)</p><p>“Half an hour,” he reminds Dave as they turn into a room that holds only a single chair in it, with restraints already waiting.</p><p>“Nag, nag, and fuck you, but it’s like twenty-four minutes, so you’d better shut the damn door like the bridesmaid to the groom, and help for once in your life. Gotta get your hands dirty sometimes, lil bro, you know that.” Dave sneers, and Dirk nudges the door shut with a final click. He watches Dave drop the sack unceremoniously, and reach inside to grab whoever’s there and drag them out by the nape of their neck.</p><p><strike>He sympathizes, Dave’s never been gentle, Dave’s dragged him like that before.</strike> It has to be unpleasant, but it’s the least of their worries.</p><p>Dirk doesn’t recognize this person, not at first, but his shades helpfully run recognition and come up with a name. It doesn’t ring any bells, not really- Dirk barely keeps track of how easily Carapacians switch their names, and while he can pick out the batch and factory of origin for this one, that doesn’t mean anything. Not other than it seems to be from the original defective batch. That’s not good. It knows-</p><p>No, Dirk tells himself firmly. It doesn’t know anything. <em>His </em>secrets are safe. The rest, though- that’s what they want to get out of it.</p><p>“You went missing quite a while ago, didn’t you,” he says politely, as Dave shoves them right into the chair, hard enough that there’s a hiss of pain as chitin cracks against unforgiving metal.</p><p>“Go <em>fuck</em> yourself,” CO-4269 snarls, baring all those pearl-white, pathetically blunt teeth. White-shells, they’re all soft, they don’t have a stitch of aggression in their bones. They get used for busywork and sales, if they’re intrepid like this one was. But this one was also clearly defective, judging by how they’re cussing up a blue streak.</p><p>“Language,” Dirk tells them. He makes sure to flash his own teeth- and those are damn near Dersite sharp, when it comes down to it, even if he doesn’t have the mouthful of knives that Noir or DD do, or even Mother.</p><p>“You’d better not talk unless it’s something we <em>really</em> wanna hear,” Dave murmurs, just brimming with barely-concealed violence. For once, it’s not directed to him. Dirk hides the tightening of his hand into a fist by keeping it behind his back. “That one gets <em>real</em> fussy about manners and all that shit, dude’s a fuckin’ priss, but this time he’s got a point. Piece of shit like you? You’ve got no right talking to either of <em>us</em> like that. Looks like someone’s forgotten their place, and well, a manager’s job is to remind employees of what they gotta do, right? And I am the best at HR, it’s me, people love listening and doing what I tell ‘em to, it’s a real skill, what can I say? I’m just a charismatic bastard.”</p><p>Dave’s smiling now; Dirk catches the way it pulls at his cheeks even in profile. There’s nothing warm at all when Dave smiles; Dirk knows his own is the same way.</p><p>“What, are you going to re-educate me? Put a pretty little crown on my head?” The Carapacian sneers, but their voice skitters up in pitch, and Dirk can see the way those beady eyes are blinking, hear the rapid snicksnicksnick of chitin plates against one another as it starts to squirm in earnest.</p><p>“Only if you prove to be worth the resources,” Dirk says simply. “Are you going to do that?”</p><p>“I don’t need to prove <em>shit</em> to you to live, I’d rather-,” what would no doubt have been a moving speech is cut short by the smack of Dave’s hand against its mouth. His fingers are splayed, nails scraping against their exoskeleton.</p><p>“You really gonna finish that one? ‘Cause go on, and believe me, whatever it is you’re thinking you can take? Whatever you’re over here trying to pretend you’re not pissing your pants over the thought of? I’m telling you right now that what I’m gonna do to you is way, <em>way</em> worse. And he’s not gonna stop me, y’know. He likes to watch, even if he’s too much of a prude to get his hands dirty for real. Ain’t no one in your corner today, you shitty little traitor.”</p><p>Dirk doesn’t bother contradicting this. He gets his hands dirty when he needs to, but he’ll never revel in the messy cruelty that Dave does. Instead, he just summons up a small, thin smile.</p><p>Dave’s fingers push in, and in, and Dirk watches delicate spiderweb cracks appear in the smooth, pale shell. He watches them widen, and deepen, until it gives way in five different places with separate, distinct snaps like an eggshell breaking. The Carapacian screams, the sound ragged and muffled. Bright red liquid begins to ooze from the cuts, taking fragments of shell with it, islands in a sea of blood. It’s a curiously striking visual, and Dirk follows the trail of it along the contours of Dave’s hand.</p><p>At least until his brother yanks his hand away, eliciting another garbled shout, and shakes it off disdainfully.</p><p>“Fuck, nearly got that on my sleeve. Ma’d be pissed if I was a mess for dinner and I’m not gonna have enough time to change,” he mutters.</p><p>“We’d better start asking questions then,” Dirk suggests, taking a single step closer. He ensures that he remains outside of Dave’s reach- out of the splash zone, really; there’s no denying that Dave is going to get messy with this. He always does.</p><p>“Nag, nag,” Dave grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Whatever, dude, let’s get this shit done and have some fun before we have to play all nice for dinner. Ma’s got such a damn stick up her ass about that fuckin’ table, like I give a damn if it’s mahogany and sacred and an heirloom or whatever. She’s still popped a motherfucker like a grape with it.”</p><p>“It’s a very effective tactic,” Dirk says. “Shame we don’t have a table here.”</p><p>Their erstwhile guest doesn’t seem to be too rattled by that, though they’re still shaky. Dirk suspects it may be whatever Dave dosed it with wearing off, or simply nerves. He hopes the latter- that’s easier to deal with, after all.</p><p>“I’m a big boy with a big boy brain and a hell of a creative genius, bro,” Dave drawls out. He cracks his knuckles in a way that he probably intends as ironic and menacing, but would have other people shitting their pants. It helps to be that physically imposing, sometimes. “And you know what they say. Corporate boys make do.”</p><p>“Adapt, improvise, brovercome,” he agrees. “Mother, I assume, wants all the information we can wring from this grublet.”</p><p>Dave snaps his fingers right in front of the Carapacian’s beaded eyes, and Dirk watches them follow his fingers. There’s blood crusted under Dave’s blunt nails. Dirk doubts it’s only from this particular captive.</p><p>“Y’hear that, dude? You’d better start singing like a canary, else we’re gonna have some real big issues. Well, you’re gonna have the issues, y’know, but hey. I’m generous as fuck and beating the shit outta you’s got me in a good mood. I’ll be real fuckin’ euphoric, doing it all over again.” Dave’s smiling wider, and Dirk keeps his eyes on the Carapacian instead, because Dave’s <em>real</em> smile is nothing like his polite, Company-best smile. It’s all teeth, cheeks splitting wide open, ready to eat you alive. It’s best not to wonder just how figurative that is.</p><p>“Like- hhg. Like I’m gonna tell you anything.” Its voice is hoarse, and Dave doesn’t even let them get anything out before his fist is slamming right into the curve of its chest, driving right through it with a sickening crack. Dirk circles around behind them, and simply rests his hands on both sides of the Carapacian’s head, his fingers just barely skimming the cracks and dents Dave has left in his wake, navigating broken exoskeleton and the pulpy mess of flesh beneath.</p><p>“Prospitians are so pretty, aren’t they?” he murmurs. He keeps his touch feather light, despite the flinch it elicits. Good. He’s not the most dangerous person in the room, not by a long shot and not in a physical sense, but it knows exactly which of them is in control here. “All that shell’s good for plenty, even after it’s burnt. And there’s no sense in letting bits of it just stay on.”</p><p>“Just say you got some kinda weird texture complex and fuckin’ pick at it like it’s a boiled egg, bro, Jesus. Get over your pseudo-villain ranting shit.”</p><p>“I’ve never claimed to be a <em>pseudo</em>-villain. And I’m certainly no hero like you,” Dirk answers, as sweet as anything. Let Dave be the face of the government, the one who gets all the attention and who gluts himself on misattributed credit. Dirk doesn’t mind; he prefers working behind the scenes, as much as Dave might like to mock him for it.</p><p>There’s a beat of silence, and the Carapacian starts to wheeze, a rattling noise that tells of some kind of lung damage, before Dave answers.</p><p>“Yeah, well, damn straight I should be a fuckin’ hero, I’ve got all the medals to prove it, fuck, dude, do you <em>know</em> how goddamn good I look in all that General regalia? Dress uniforms got everyone going hel<em>lo</em> sailor,” Dave says, and Dirk really, honestly, and truly just tunes him the fuck out.</p><p>“Stay still,” he instructs softly instead, and he lets his fingers dig right into the ruined mass of too-sensitive flesh. They push and sink in like a hot knife through butter, and the Carapacian fucking<em> screams</em>, the sound high-pitched and grating. It’s an animal noise, brought forth by nothing but pain, and Dirk ignores that too. He pushes his fingers in deeper, deeper, down nearly to the first knuckle. He doesn’t want to break through to the interior of its mouth- it needs to be about to <em>talk</em>, after all, but he does want this to hurt. And it will.</p><p>Carapacians are so fucking <em>soft</em> inside; it feels like sticking his hand into warmed, raw minced meat, and Dirk makes sure that his nails drag just so as he pulls his fingers out. There’s eight neat holes framing its mouth now, four on each side, and they ooze lymph.</p><p>Dave lets out a low whistle.</p><p>“You’re into some nasty-ass shit, bro, I’ll tell you that, but hey, nice to know you got options for where you’re gonna stick your dick. Shame we don’t got time for that, though; clock’s tick tocking away and this fucker ain’t gonna be so pretty for much longer, ‘specially if it still wants to keep quiet. Like that kinda fuckin’ loyalty ever saved anyone. Everyone talks eventually, and we’re <em>real</em> good at getting them to, ain’t that right, baby bro?” Dave’s leaned in close, practically crooning now, and Dirk could easily reach out and touch him, leave smears of gore against the sharp planes of his face. Snap his jaw just as easily as he caved a chest in. His fingertips twitch, slightly, and he doesn’t try to do anything. He knows what happens when he touches Dave, especially violently, especially where <em>Dave</em> is the one getting hurt, no matter if it’s a scratch or a broken bone. Dirk’s always paid for it before, and he needs to be in working condition with everything that’s going on.</p><p>“Yes, we are,” he agrees instead. Because it’s the truth, because Dave always, <em>always</em> expects an answer to a question like that. When he was much younger, he used to crave that inclusion, just a simple, pathetic, fucking collective pronoun. When he was younger, he’d go above and beyond, doing the dirty work like this, just to-</p><p>No. He doesn’t need to think about that, now. He’s older, smarter, and he’s cut his teeth on his brother’s cruelty for long enough to know that whatever it is the child he used to be may have wanted from Dave, it was an impossibility to get. And he just doesn’t care anymore.</p><p>So he’ll agree, and he’ll play along, and he’ll feel absolutely nothing while he does.</p><p>“I’m- hah, not telling you <em>shit</em>,” it tries again. So determined. Dirk can almost approve of that will- he would, if it weren’t set against him. If it had ever been meant to exist in the first place. Mother is careful to eradicate it in all her creations; this is more a symptom of a bigger issue than anything else. A single crack in the foundation of her empire- well. That’s disastrous, and it’s that type of catastrophe that it’s his job to prevent.</p><p>But is it really so much to ask that the dissidents simply cave easily?</p><p>Well. Maybe. But then again, he wouldn’t trust it even if they did.</p><p>“That’s the <em>spirit</em>,” Dave hisses, violent enough that Dirk sees a few flecks of saliva land on the ruins of its face. Disgusting. Dirk’s still cradling the Prospitian’s head, and he feels the faint tremors in its body, the shudder and flinch that it can’t suppress- and he can feel it tense as it sends pain wracking right back through it. It takes the barest amount of force to pull its head back, expose the more delicate, flexible plating under its head. And Dave’s hands reach out, wrap around it, and <em>squeeze</em>.</p><p>It keens, another high-pitched noise, but this one is cut off but a gurgled wheeze as it struggles to breathe. Dave’s grip is no doubt painful, and while it would leave bruises on a human that would take days to heal, on shell the constriction is no doubt much, much worse.</p><p>Dirk starts a mental count. He knows exactly how long this can last without the risk of a loss of consciousness, and with their time limit, that’s not something they can afford. Five seconds before the time is up, he speaks.</p><p>“Let go, I’d say that looked persuasive from my end,” Dirk murmurs. Dave’s gaze snaps up to him, and as always, there’s something fucking manic in his eyes, like he’s being burned up from the inside. He squeezes harder, because he’s a spiteful asshole who hasn’t figured out that Dirk accounts for it every time yet, and finally lets go with a sneer.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s because it damn well was. I’m charming as fuck, bro, you gotta keep that in mind. You’re lookin’ at <em>the</em> most eligibubble bachelor on the whole planet, sexiest man alive-,”</p><p>“Dave, focus.”</p><p>“Don’t fuckin’ interrupt me,” Dave says, but this time, he actually listens. Not surprising, with Mother <em>and</em> a deadline involved. “So. Feelin’ chatty yet? Because I’m downright- fuck, what’s the word? Nerd boy?”</p><p>Dirk’s aware that this is him. “Verbose? Garrulous? Loquacious? Effusive? Erregial?”</p><p>“…That last one ain’t a word. Right?”</p><p>“The point is,” Dirk says smoothly, ignoring that, “It’s in your best interest to talk.”</p><p>“Like my options,” it answers, voice thoroughly wrecked by now. Someone with a softer heart- or with a heart at all, arguably- would probably feel bad about this. But Dirk’s long-since ground out every trace of softness from himself with ruthless efficiency. “Get hurt or get hurt more. W-ow.”</p><p>“Your bravado is commendable, but it’s going to get you nowhere,” Dirk informs it. “Everyone talks, because everyone wants the pain to stop. I’ve been kind enough to keep my brother on a leash for now-,” and boy, is he going to suffer for that one later, however true it may be, “but Dave can do far, far worse than he’s already done. This is just foreplay for him, isn’t it?”</p><p>“You know it? Hey. Hey, whiteshell. Hey, pasty. Hey, fuckin’ traitor, look at me.” A wet thwack, as Dave slaps at the ruins of its face. Not gently, either. “You tired of being nice? Don’t you wanna just go <em>apeshit</em>? Because I sure do.”</p><p>Dirk takes this as his cue to step back out of the splash zone once more. Dave is messy, despite himself, and Dirk’s got no desire to change his clothes. He circles back around to stand behind Dave and watch impassively. This always works better, when they can see him.</p><p>“Just remember,” he says, between screams as it gasps for breath after ragged breath with Dave’s fist somewhere in its insides, “All you need to do is talk. You can make this stop at any time.”</p><p>There’s no answer for a long while, and the damage gets progressively worse and worse. It’s nothing that Dirk hasn’t seen before- certainly, it’s <em>tame</em> to some of the other interrogations he’s both led and participated in-, but time is still ticking by. He’s about to step in himself, when it finally cracks. Pun intended, of course.</p><p>“Okay- I’ll. I’ll talk.”</p><p>He’s quick to move in, hook his fingers in the back of Dave’s jacket and give a tug to get his attention, rein him in quickly. Dave’s entire body jerks at it, even if it isn’t real contact, and Dirk lets go almost immediately, but he does subside. For a moment, the only sound in the room is two sets of labored breathing- Dave, e</p><p>Dirk finally lets a smile pull at his mouth. It shows nearly all his teeth.</p><p>“Now that’s what I like to hear. This conversation will, of course, be recorded for quality assurance purposes,” he adds, lifting one hand to turn the device in his shades on. He’s long-since ensured that it’s under his control, rather than simply the illusion of it, but no one has bothered to check.</p><p>“Well, broseph,” Dave drawls out, still looming over them. “You’d better sing like a goddamn canary.”</p><p>And it does. Dirk gets names and locations and sweet, sweet details, which he notes down mentally like any good gossipmonger housewife. Not all of it is entirely new, although he certainly is going to have to do something about the sudden escalation in targeting Carapacian facilities. Word of the original flawed batch has gotten out, and it seems that Lalonde is looking to recreate what had once been an accident in the vats. Well, that simply won’t do.</p><p>He cuts a glance over at Dave, but his brother is, predictably, staring at the ceiling instead in his usual affectation of aggressively insolent boredom. Whether or not Dave is actually paying attention is anyone’s guess, Dirk’s included. He’s a lost cause, honestly, but perhaps it’s for the better that Dave is quiet, just this once.</p><p>It lets Dirk ask all his questions unimpeded- pushing, always pushing for more. Names of any potential other moles, converted Carapacians who think they can slip in under his watch (though this is a particularly dangerous game to play), the next factory they want to hit. Anything and everything he can get. He still has to get his hands dirty a few more times, when it suddenly decided to reconstruct its exoskeletal spinal support, but that’s hardly a problem. The resistance has already crumbled, there’s no rebuilding. A few more blows, carefully calculated to cause the maximum hurt, is all it takes.</p><p>But even with that, Dirk knows that the interrogation is running its course. There are only so many useful answers you can get from one creature, and the Carapacian begins to ramble increasingly, its head hanging low, as if maintaining good posture is too much effort. It would be a picture of defeat, if it wasn’t funnelling that effort into useless mouthing off.</p><p>“’N you, you’re. You’re the worst of it, y’know that? Golden- fucking. Golden boy of the Batterwitch-,” this time it’s Dirk who steps forward, neatly backhanding it across the face. More fragments of shell fly.</p><p>“I know that respect is something you’ve worked to eradicate, but do try to have some decorum,” Dirk warns. “Only useful things from your mouth from now on. So tell us, where <em>exactly</em> were you taught this crock of shit?”</p><p>“And you-, god, you’re just fucking waiting for him to slip up,” the Carapacian slurs out, not even registering his question. What a mess. They’re barely recognizable now, that pretty shell shattered in different places, the pleasant arc of their head gone concave in many places. One eye has burst, it oozes jelly that catches on the cracks of its face.</p><p>It’s a very good thing that Dirk isn’t often or obviously caught off-guard.</p><p>“Great,” he sighs, affecting disdain that he has to reach for more than usual. “It’s now forgotten the leader is a woman.”</p><p>Dave sucks his teeth, a bad habit he’s developed that Mother apparently has yet to beat out of him. He doubts that she’ll succeed, personally, but it’s likely he’s yet to slip up and do it in front of her.</p><p>“Yeah. Think we’ve gotten just about everything outta it, but how much time we got left? I’m not done playing yet and I know you want me to put on a real good show, bro, even if you’re making like you don’t wanna join in. It be that way sometimes and all, but damn, dude, all that virginal repression ain’t good for you, no way no now. Next thing you know you’re running off to become a Mormon or some shit. Wherever those guys are now, anyway. Better go get your purity ring set up from now, dude.”</p><p>“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Dirk says, but they do need to finish this soon. He makes a show of checking his watch, nonchalant as anything. “We’ve got eight more minutes. It’ll take two to get to the dining room, if we ditch the elevator and flashstep up the stairs.”</p><p>“And two to dump this sorry piece of shell in the incinerator and make sure it’s fired up to roast the ever-loving fuck outta it. You hear that, dude? Not gonna be a single speck of dust with your DNA on it, they’re gonna think you just up and left or expired on them.” Dave gives a nod, ignoring the Carapacian entirely. “Yeah, that’ll do it. Fuck, dude, am I a planning genius or <em>what</em>?”</p><p>“Or what, obviously.”</p><p>“Shut your whore mouth- oh, wait. Hard to be a whore when no one wants you,” Dave sneers, and perhaps Dirk derives a certain amount of satisfaction in the <em>private</em> knowledge that he’s in fact wanted by at least one person. On solely the level of physical attraction, but he wouldn’t dream of, or want, anything else. That would be absurd.</p><p>The Carapacian is looking on with what can only be described as incredulity across its mess of a face, and it opens its mouth. No doubt to allude to something that’s going to get Dirk into a <em>fuck</em>ton of trouble should it come out. He slaps a hand over its mouth, makes sure to get his nails into the pulpy gore of what’s left of its cheeks, as he hisses out, “If you’re going to say something, it had better be an answer to a question we asked.”</p><p>The one good eye narrows, and Dirk can see it thinking. That’s what caused this entire problem in the first place, and yet here it is, persisting. He doesn’t know what conclusion it comes to, but it subsides for now, and he withdraws his hand. It’s wet with fresh blood and lymph, and Dirk wipes it off on the Carapacian’s arm, where the shell is only slightly dented.</p><p>“Good to see we’ve reached that accord. Now, anything to say before there’s nothing left of you?” he asks, because he has to, even if he knows this is a thin line to tread. Because it <em>clearly</em> knows something about him and John, and he is going to have to have a word with Egbert about leaks and rumours.</p><p>(He could do the sensible thing. He could end things between them, simply throw Egbert out of his office the next time he shows up there, brazen as he always is. He could say it’s over and he knows that Egbert would listen, and the time they saw each other after that would be as <em>real</em> enemies again, and-</p><p>No. What is he thinking? They <em>are</em> real enemies, even now. It’s- this is what he does, and Egbert stands against every single thing that Dirk represents, every shred of his being. All those offers to stay, to come away with him, they’re nothing but empty and calculated, and he’s disgusted at himself.</p><p>But the thing is this- they’re still only delaying the inevitable. If they keep this up, they will get caught. Dirk will be punished severely, and Egbert-</p><p>Egbert’s going to be in a chair like this, and either Dirk is going to have to do this to him but worse, or he’s going to have to watch Dave do it.</p><p>Something unpleasant churns in the pit of his stomach, burns in the back of his throat, bitter and acrid. His heart pounds, uncomfortable.</p><p>He-</p><p>No. Not now.</p><p>He has to focus now.</p><p>He’s here. He’s at Mother’s and he has a job to do and Dave is right fucking here, he can’t lose it over complete fabricated nonsense his brain has decided to think up. What does it matter if John Egbert dies? He’s going to, he’s going to be a fucking <em>martyr</em>, and then what? Then, nothing. The world will forget him, Mother will thoroughly destroy evidence of his existence, history will erase him. Dave will make sure he’s the butt of an eternal joke, the equivalent of metaphorically pissing on his grave. There’s no doubt Dave would literally piss on his ashes. And Dirk is- going to be complicit in it, just as he always has been in these things. And that’s fine. He was fine with it before. This is what he does, this is who he is, and what fucking right does John Egbert have to even <em>attempt</em> to make feel anything about it?)</p><p>“-and listen, listen, listen, I know you just got bitchslapped like ten ways to Sunday but like, he coulda dislocated your jaw for real or whatever the bug equivalent of that shit is,” Dave’s voice, as always, draws him back to reality. Dirk shoves the unease down deep and locks it up, and the nausea will subside eventually, he’s sure. He’ll deal with that- later. Never. He can’t even <em>think</em> about it, right now.</p><p>(But later.)</p><p>(Maybe.)</p><p>(…Maybe.)</p><p>The Carapacian just eyes Dave up. It’s obviously still defiant, but saving it for something. One last stand, Dirk assumes, as if there’s a stand to be made. This is just posturing, and he has no interest in hearing it himself, but it’s easy enough to tune out seditious garbage like this, even without his TiaraTop.</p><p>Dave shoulders him out of the way, gets in close all over again. His outfit has apparently been deemed a lost cause, because he hooks two fingers in its lower jaw and pulls. Flesh strains, pulls taut. A scream bubbles up from its throat, raw and hoarse, but even when Dave lets go, it’s garbling something out.</p><p>It resolves into words eventually, and those words are- well. Something about ashes, and dust, pithy nonsense that it apparently thinks is worth dying for, because Dirk can tell even now from the defiance that glints in its eye that Dave isn’t going to take it well.</p><p>“All- all this. It’s gonna come crumbling down. And there’s nothing going to be left of you. Who did this to us. And we’re all going to <em>laugh</em>, when you get shoved into that incinerator. And then we’re gonna go about the rest of our fuckin’ lives.” Each word is gritted out, over-enunciated. It hurts just to talk, and Dirk will never understand the kind of defiance and hatred that fuels someone like that.</p><p>“Famous last words,” is all he has to say in response. The dying words of a nobody hold no meaning for him.</p><p>Dave, however, is another story. As expected.</p><p>“Fuckin’ idiot, we’ve done all this, our names are gonna be written in the goddamn sky, carved into this shithole planet,” he snarls, draws his fist back, and lands a punch with his full strength right against their head. It caves the already cracked and shattered exoskeleton in, and his hand goes right up to the elbow in grey-matter, his sleeve soaking through in a matter of seconds. Not that it matters, with the state it was in before, but the black fabric of his jacket was doing a much better job of hiding any stray drops of blood, and while his arms were gory, having his sleeves rolled up did help. Well. Until his arm went halfway in, of course.</p><p>“Fuck,” he says, dismayed. Dirk supposes he should be relieved to not be subjected to a terrible fisting joke. “Ma’s gonna flay me if I show up at the table like this.”</p><p>“I’ll deal with the body,” Dirk sighs. “You go clean that up.”</p><p>“Finally, he does something goddamn useful,” Dave snipes, but he’s already darting off. Mother doesn’t approve of that kind of mess- at least not at the dinner table, and not when she hasn’t been able to watch it directly.</p><p>Dirk ignores that, too, and loosens the restraints. Someone else will be alone to clean up all the blood and shell fragments, hose down the floor, and have the room ready for someone else. He grabs the corpse by its neck, fingers curling in the raised lip of the plate on its back, and drags it out of the chair.</p><p>He treks down the hallway, accompanied only by the sound of his own breathing and the distant hum of electronics in the lab floors below, and tries not to think about how much worse it could’ve been.</p><p>If it’d been John-</p><p>No. He’s not going to think about that. Not now, not again.</p><p>(Except he has to, doesn’t he? Because one day it will be, and it’s not even that his secrets will be spilled, ones worse than covering up a few incidents to assist loyal workers and strings pulled to have favors owed. It’s that it’ll be <em>John</em>, and Dirk is going to have to hurt him worse than he’s hurt everyone else, and then he’s going to have to watch Dave do the same thing. The thought nearly makes him sick to his stomach, and it’s the repetition of it that is the worst part.)</p><p>Dirk makes sure to watch the body ignite and start to crumble, before he makes his way upstairs. The elevator ride is spent straightening himself up. The scant seconds in the bathroom aren’t enough to do anything but get the blood off his hands.</p><p>“Out, damned spot,” he mutters to himself, and watches his reflection in the mirror. Shades on, as inscrutable as he can be, all thoughts of sedition and worry and <em>John Egbert</em> tucked away where no one will be able to pull them out. Not that Mother or Dave is actually psychic, of course, but there’s no weakness to be shown here. He summons up a smile- soft, polite, appropriately affectionate for a close-knit family, no matter how fake it is-, dries his hands, and goes to the dinner table.</p><p>Dave is, predictably, here before him. But Dirk knows he’s not late, if only by the skin of his teeth, because Mother offers him a smile of her own.</p><p>“There you are, guppy. Was pondering if you went and got all lost down there,” she teases. She reaches out to pinch his cheek, but her claws don’t dig in, and so he simply smiles wider for her.</p><p>“Sorry to cut it so close, I had to clean up,” he offers in explanation. Mother lets go, and he settles down to her right, across from Dave as always. The table is set, the casserole golden-brown and still-warm. It smells mouthwatering.</p><p>“Like he was doin’ some huge favor, Christ,” Dave mutters. He’s not happy about being thrown under the bus, and that’s partially why Dirk enjoys doing it so much. This won’t hurt him, anyway; Mother already knows he’s messy.</p><p>“Well, I could have let us be late, if we’d done it your way,” Dirk answers, to push the jab further. He knows where the lines are with Dave. Normally he toes them. Sometimes, he doesn’t.</p><p>“Like hell, you had me doing all the dirty work anyway.” Dave’s grip on his butter knife is white-knuckled. “Just like always, ‘cause you can’t be assed to get a single finger dirty, or do a damn useful thing in your life.”</p><p>“It’s all you’re good for, isn’t it?” Dirk shoots back. “Besides, god forbid anyone ever try to muscle in on what you think is your spotlight. Newsflash, brother, it’s a dim, flickering lightbulb in an interrogation room, you don’t need to make it about yourself like you try to do with everything else.”</p><p>“Listen here, you litte-,” Dave half-stands, lurching over the table with enough force to make the silverware rattle.</p><p>“Mind yo manners at the table, buoys,” Mother says, and her claws click meaningfully against the wood. Dirk bites his tongue, though he can’t quite stop himself from continuing to glare at Dave across the table.</p><p>“Sorry, ma,” Dave says, smiling wide and insincerely apologetic. His teeth are brilliant white and tombstone-perfect, and Dirk itches to knock them out again. Slowly, he sits back down, slouches just so to make it look like he hasn’t just been scolded. And all the while, he’s staring right at Dirk, fingers drumming against the table in a way that says <em>you’re fucking toast next time it’s you and me alone in a room, kiddo.</em> “You know how it goes with siblings, can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em. Well, I prolly could manage without junior over there, but them’s the breaks, and someone’s gotta deal with the paperwork. Can’t make the poor Dignitary do all of it, he’d clobber me to death and then what would everyone do without seeing my pretty face around, right? Not to mention how goddamn-,”</p><p>“Language.” Her voice interrupts, sharp as a knife. Her eyes are narrowed now, fins slightly flared. She’s annoyed, genuinely this time.</p><p>Silence, for a moment, before Dave continues seamlessly.</p><p>“-<em>Goshdarned</em> boring it’d be around here without me. Ain’t nobody good for a laugh. Don’t say the clowns, Ma, you know that those dudes are good and messed up. They give me a migraine.”</p><p>“Buoy, they give <em>everyone</em> migraines,” she agrees, whole-heartedly. “But damn if they ain’t good for some laughs, too. Naut their fault you don’t understand comedy.”</p><p>“What? Take that back. I know comedy so well. I <em>am</em> comedy, why else am I doing all those boring press conferences? Other than, you know, Junior over there being so socially incompetent he’d lose his mind just looking at the cameras. Dude’s never been in a room with more than four other people and it shows. While he was busy learning statistics, I studied how to be cool,” Dave drawls out, shooting him a typically smug grin.</p><p>“At least I get things done instead of just being a shameless attention whore,” Dirk says mildly. “Someone has to keep things running when all you want to do is ham it up for the press.”</p><p>“Better an attention whore than-,”</p><p>“Buoy. What the <em>fuck</em> did I just say a-boat language at the table?”</p><p>Neither of them point out the hypocrisy (hypocri-sea) in that particular statement, because neither of them particularly have a death wish. Or at least, there’s no desire to die over what’s going to be a bomb-ass casserole, all things considered. Dirk stands up to serve each of them- Mother first, Dave next, then himself, and while he itches to reverse the order of the last two to really twist the knife in, he’s aware that he’s already pushed more than he should. There’s only so many slights Dave will take, imagined, exaggerated, or intended, and Dirk reasonably sure he’s past that limit.</p><p>But the meal goes smoothly, as it always does. Mother rules these small family gatherings as she does everything else- with an iron fist and a wicked sense of humor. She engages them in some more harmless (well, mostly harmless) small talk for the rest of dinner, and watches like a fucking hawk to ensure that both their plates end up entirely clean.</p><p>There are, of course, leftovers to be packaged up and taken back to the White House tomorrow, because she’d hardly send them off without any, but it’s not until Dirk and Dave both slump lower into their chairs, indolent after a good meal, that she claps her hands together. The noise is as loud as a gunshot in the quiet room.</p><p>“Now that you buoys are fin-ally done eatin’, let’s get around to dessert,” Mother says, her smile sugar-sweet and pure delight. Dirk, stuffed too full to even think of complaining about that, just manages a drowsy nod. Dave, he registers, does the same next to him, the motion slow.</p><p>“Sure, ma,” he drawls out. “Dessert after this is just gonna hit the spot perfect. Gotta watch my figure and all that, but what’s the point of dieting when all that indulgence is right there in front of me, right? You know I can’t say no to your cake.”</p><p>“Gross,” Dirk says, succinct. It doesn’t have any of the heat from earlier.</p><p>“Literal cake, holy shiiiii- ip.” Dirk grudgingly admits that was a nice save. From the way Mother is narrowing her eyes, he’s not sure it’ll be enough, but then she just sighs and very obviously resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Get your mind outta the gutter, junior.”</p><p>“Given your history, it’s hardly a leap to make,” he murmurs. Not mumbles- no, there’s no mumbling to be had at the dinner table or anywhere else, no matter how tired he is, no matter how much his mouth wants to slur his words out.</p><p>Habit is hard to break, even when his eyelids are drooping behind his shades.</p><p>“Fishtory,” Dave says, with a snort. Mother allows it, of course. Dirk suspects she’s long since given up on trying to teach Dave manners beyond those absolutely necessary. He’s a slow study, and it’s not worth the effort- and she isn’t one to put in resources for unworthy projects.</p><p>“Fishtory,” Dirk repeats. It is <em>stupid</em> funny. It reminds him of Egbert, a little bit, but his tongue isn’t anywhere loose enough to blurt that out. “Maybe you should go into comedy proper. Do stand-up shows so we can pelt you with rotten tomatoes.”</p><p>“As if they wouldn’t be all sold out, kiddo. I’d make absolute bank if I brought my humor to the stage and don’t you forget it.”</p><p>“An hour long track of a fart isn’t humor, bro.”</p><p>“I put the ‘f’ in fine art, I don’t know what else to tell you. It’s not my fault you’re a goddamn heathen robot who can’t pull your head outta your ass for ten seconds to appreciate the nicer things in life.” Dave pauses. “That’s not ten years in the shower, anyway.”</p><p>“We don’t share a bathroom anymore,” is all Dirk has to offer for that one. He’s definitely too full to be offended, and Dave is clearly in the same boat. In another world, this might even pass for sibling banter, friendly and not tinged with years of disdain and disgust.</p><p>Yeah, right. He and Dave would never get along well enough for that.</p><p>“I love you buoys, you know that?” she asks, and she’s smiling wide, all her fangs on display under plump fuschia lips. Dirk would kill for that smile. He’d do anything to see it again, directed at him, filled to the gills with pride.</p><p>Her hair curls and writhes behind her in the encroaching dark.</p><p>“Yes, Mother,” they both murmur.</p><p>“Now open wide,” she instructs them, and there’s a wicked-sharp claw pressing its point into his mouth, pressure rather than pain on his tongue as he tastes hot iron and registers its his own blood filling his mouth, pouring down the back of his throat and threatening to choke him.</p><p>He tries to gurgle something out- he doesn’t know what, a warning, a shred of weakness he’d never show voluntarily, but his throat is seared open and raw and he can’t see anything but the blue-red-blue-pink glow of her eyes, bright as the sun and twice as terrible, burning into his eyes even behind the shades.</p><p>It all goes dark after that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Listen, if you're very horny for Dave Crocker after this, I can only apologize and say that everyone who got previews of this and read about him was also horny for him, so at least you're not alone.</p><p>Anyway, the summary. Tl;dr- Dirk goes home for a family dinner, he and Dave torture some deets out of a Carapacian, they eat afterwards and they black out at the end.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter 4. This one is important, but it (matching 3) is where those warnings come in, except I can't rlly recommend which bits to leave out, since it's the whole thing. Summary'll be at the bottom.</p><p>Trigger warnings for: Well. Basically Dave Crocker?? <strong>Abusive &amp; unhealthy relationships, violence, referenced/implied child abuse, brainwashing, and mind control.<strong> Espionage murder as well, but that's largely offscreen.</strong></strong></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> “There you are, bro.” Dave invites himself into Dirk’s office without so much as a knock, the door flinging wide open so hard it ricochets off the wall and Dave has to stick a foot out to stop it with the sole of his shoe. A shame he’d timed it properly, Dirk would’ve liked seeing it hit him right in the face. It’s a heavy door, too, it’d have done some damage.</p><p>Certainly more so now, when they’re both still aching and sore after their family dinner.</p><p>(Dirk still doesn’t know what happened, what she did and he hates it, he hates it so much it makes him almost incandescent in rage, which he folds up neatly and boxes away, because it’s not productive, nor efficient, nor is he meant to be feeling it in the first place. He wasn’t built to be angry, he wasn’t built like Dave, who’s hollow of anything but anger.)</p><p>(All he knows is the bruises on the insides of his elbows, and one on his neck, all neatly hidden by his shirt, and the perfect match of Mother’s fingers on his cheek, which needed to be covered for only yesterday. It’s fine, after all; he was made to heal quickly.)</p><p>(All he knows is the disjointed mess of images, bright pink nails and a wide, wide proud smile that’s all teeth flashing down at him, or maybe that’s a light above his head, his body sluggish and unresponsive and searing pain right down his chest like he’s being split open and vivisected before he’s slipped out of consciousness again. He never knows how much of it is real the next day, and how much of it is a side effect of what Mother wants to test on them, or upgrades she might want to install. Dave calls him a pissbaby nerd for calling it that, but he’s yet to offer a more palatable alternative. But so little of what Dave does is palatable at all.)</p><p>“As if I’d be anywhere else,” he points out smoothly.</p><p>“Yeah, you’d think, but sometimes I come in here thinking, hey, where’s my least fuckin’ favorite person on the planet and it’s like- fuck, yes, he ain’t here, but also, where the fuck is he, did someone kidnap the delicate little prince? Or did he go outside and get fuckin’ lost in the garden thinking it’s a jungle ‘cause he’s such a fuckin’ shut in?” Dirk decides to ignore that neatly, and instead arches an eyebrow. The implication that Dave has come in here when he’s absent is troubling- not in the least because of what Dave has done while in here (there is a reason there are no potted plants in his office, only sealed drinks in the easily accessible fridge, and locks on all his cupboards and drawers). This is Dave trying to rattle him, and Dirk knows he can’t let the other knows it’s actually kind of working. He’s bluffing.</p><p>“One of us has to actually attend meetings and be productive,” he says instead. Not false. He’s had to cover for Dave enough that it’s practically in his job description; privately, he thinks he needs a raise, and he’s almost certain that Mother agrees with him.</p><p>“Blah, blah, boring bitch whiny nonsense.” Dave’s fingers mime muppets, and Dirk can practically hear him rolling his eyes, even behind his shades.</p><p>“You’ve yet to say what you want from me,” Dirk prompts. “I don’t have the time to indulge you today, given that I have all your other messes to clean up, and I’ve got to go through the reports from the factories, and-,”</p><p>“Dirk,” Dave says. Sharp. Dirk’s quiet out of instinct. The air in the room is suddenly much, much heavier. “We both know that I don’t give a single flying fuck about any of that, and that ain’t why I’m here. You were made to push paper, it’s the only reason ma even keeps your sorry ass around, like shit, dude, you’re worse than that fucking butter robot from Rick and Morty, ain’t that sad as hell?”</p><p>“Language,” Dirk says back, just as sweet as Mother would. She wouldn’t smile, but he does, with all his teeth this time around, and he has the perfect fucking satisfaction of seeing Dave flinch. Even better, he knows how much Dave is going to despise himself for showing that bit of weakness. He always forgets that Dirk knows the chinks in his armor, just as much as Dave likes ripping Dirk’s off.</p><p>He knows what Dave’s here for. The verbal gauntlet has already been thrown. But it’s more fun to make him ask for it.</p><p>Make him beg, even. But Dave’s not the kind to beg without a knife to his throat and another one buried inside him. Though, with the mood Dirk’s in, still residually on edge from dessert, he thinks that’s a real possibility. What’s some friendly stabbing between siblings?</p><p>“Fuck you and your language,” Dave sneers back, crossing his arms over his chest. “You know what the fuck is up, ‘cause you knew what you were doing trying to mouth off to me and all that when we were at ma’s place for the weekend. And now we’re here and you can’t hide behind her like some sad Victorian orphan child clinging to mommy’s skirts anymore, we’re gonna settle it just like always.”</p><p>There’s always a price, isn’t there? But this is one Dirk always knows must be paid.</p><p>“Just like always, hm? The party is today,” he reminds Dave. “Nothing to the face that won’t heal in the hours it takes to get ready. Mother specified we have to be looking our best, and that you need to be behaving your best. Why she thinks you’re capable of any good behavior at all is beyond me, but I suppose you were good at heeling over the weekend. Turns out even old, rabid dogs learn new tricks.”</p><p>He’s pushing it, and he knows that, and- he can’t make himself stop. He’s still rattled from whatever it is Mother did, and while he knows she means well</p><p>(He has to believe that, how can she not? What else is all this for, if not for his own good?)</p><p>that doesn’t mean he likes it. Not that he’ll ever say that, or even think it around her. He knows why she puts him through it, and it’s worth it. It is.</p><p>Dave smiles wide, and his eyeteeth catch the light. “No fuckin’ problem, you wanna call me a dog, I’ll call you a bitch, but the fact is you’re the one who’s gonna get bitten, and you already know that, you little shit. I’ll never get why you always insist on making this shit worse for yourself, but hey, am I gonna complain about putting an uppity fuckin’ brat like you in his place? Nah, I don’t think so. Shit’s as satisfying as those pimple popping viral videos, except your head’s the pimple and your brains are the gross shit inside. Wait, no, shit, maybe I don’t wanna know what the fuck’s in your brain, it’s all gonna be math and hentai and oh no I’m going to die a virgin.”</p><p>“As uninspiring as ever,” Dirk sighs. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to make do. Let’s go with point five out of five hats, which, since you seem to be unable to do basic arithmetic, is an abysmal fucking score. You lost the game, so tragic, but entirely expected, given that your brain resides in the three inches between your legs.”</p><p>“I know the leaked sex tape wasn’t the greatest quality, bro, but c’mon. Don’t go confusing shitty camera quality with whatever the fuck it is you see in the mirror and cry about. And also fuck you,” Dave adds. “My insults are the fuckin’ greatest and you know it, I’m the sickest motherfucker around, I’ll scalp assholes with just my tongue-,”</p><p>“Wow, learning about how you like to eat ass and are terrible at it is really not how I thought I was going to spend my afternoon,” Dirk snips right back. He decides the best course of action is simply to look down at his paperwork in front of Dave, and despite the fact that he’s not reading a single sentence of this report, he can hear Dave’s teeth grind in annoyance.</p><p>“Christ, this is what I fuckin’ get for talking to you instead of just grabbing your ass and dragging you downstairs by the hair like I should’ve. Bet everyone’d love to see that, how you ain’t shit when it comes to me.” Why Dave is speaking like he’s the victim, like he’s the one inconvenienced, like he ever does a single damned useful thing-</p><p>No.</p><p>He needs to keep calm. In control. Dirk lets out a slow breath.</p><p>“If you wanted to strife, perhaps you ought to have said so at the beginning,” Dirk points out, and he keeps his voice as bland as possible. “At no point did you make me think that this was anything other than your usual insistence on being the center of attention, when in fact the papers crumpled up in my trash are more important than you are.”</p><p>He finally stands, his chair scraping the floor as it’s pushed back.</p><p>“Keep that fuckin’ smartass mouth going, kiddo,” Dave murmurs, his voice now dangerously low. “All you’re doing is racking up one hell of a debt, but there’s no one around who’s gonna say I don’t give a fuckin’ sharp interest rate. Could cut yourself on those profit margins, and I’m sitting there raking in the dollas. And there sure ain’t a single soul who’d say I ever failed to fuckin’ collect on what’s mine.” Dirk’s hit a nerve, and he knew what he was doing, but there’s still that awful fucking chill down his spine when Dave looks at him like that. Part of him wants to freeze up, a deer in headlights. But that small, scared, stupid child is dead. Dirk will play his part just fine, and he’s long past being scared of Dave. He is. Why else would he be pushing so hard?</p><p>He doesn’t bother dignifying that with an answer as he sweeps out of his office, Dave’s mocking bow barely visible in the corner of his vision. He’s aching all over, he’s in some kind of a mood, he feels like he wants to crawl out of his skin. By all accounts, he should be at a disadvantage. But the energy is buzzing in his core, begging to be used, and if there’s anything Dirk is good at, it’s channelling excess energy into productivity.</p><p>(He doesn’t like having Dave at his back, not like this, and he walks quickly. But that’s fine, too. No one would like having Dave at their back, for obvious reasons.)</p><p>Down a set of side stairs, to the sprawling training room Mother had installed when Dave first moved in. It’s not quite an exact replica of the facilities they have when at home; it’s smaller, the bathrooms less lavish, no hot spring included. But it’s more than serviceable. Dirk turns into the attached changing rooms, and makes sure to firmly lock the door behind himself before stripping down, ignoring Dave’s loud complaints, and then his insults about Dirk’s self-esteem. Which are almost laughable, at this point.</p><p>His suit is neatly hung up in a locker so that it won’t wrinkle, and Dirk dons a simple tank top and a pair of comfortable pants, also fitted close to his body. It’s best not to have any spare fabric that Dave can grab onto. It’s also a lot more skin than he usually shows, even with his hands wrapped. He shoulders past Dave on his way out, ignores the usual wolf-whistle and its mocking note.</p><p>“Someone’s a sore loser for a dude who ain’t even stepped up to the mat yet,” Dave calls out, his words hovering in the high-ceilinged room.</p><p>“Someone’s real mouthy for a dude who hasn’t even gotten changed yet,” Dirk retorts. “Hurry up, princess, we don’t have all day.”</p><p>“Bitch, I could beat the shit outta you in my suit with nothing but my bare fuckin’ hands, don’t even need a sword, but I don’t want to get your snotty tears all over it while I do that, so it’s gonna be the sweats for me.” Predictably, Dave doesn’t bother closing the door, never mind that his voice would carry through it even if he did.</p><p>“Your ass looks flat either way, it doesn’t matter what you wear,” Dirk tells him. He equips his katana in the meantime, murmuring a quick rap to get it sliding out of his strife specibus, and flows through a few forms as a warmup. Normally he’d like to stretch out properly too, but he doubts he has the time, and with Dave likely sore and stiff as well, it won’t necessarily give him an advantage. He keeps it brief, and he’s ready and waiting when Dave strides out like he owns the place, in a loose T-shirt and grey sweatpants that have been purchased specifically to be thin and look already broken-in, for reasons that Dirk prefers to ignore.</p><p>“Damn, bro,” Dave wolf-whistles, sharp and mocking. “Is that a sword or are you just real happy to see me?”</p><p>Dirk gives him an unimpressed look, easily spinning his katana once to a more comfortable grip. “I’m never happy to see you.”</p><p>“Even better, and can I say? Big fuckin’ mood.” Dave pauses, tips his head to the side. “You get a new ‘fit or something? I swear all your clothes look the same, but maybe you just gained weight. Shame none of it went to that flat ass of yours, though. That shit is flatter than a goddamn plateau, bro, seriously, ma should disown you based on that alone. Sorry. Bass-ed. There we go, shit, how’d I miss that one?”</p><p>“You’ve had plenty of practice, don’t worry.”</p><p>“Like you’re one to talk about missed opportunities? You’ve had so many to fuck off or like, do us all a favor and just drop fucking dead, but hey, here you are, stubborn little bitch. Ain’t gonna complain if you’re a masochist though, I got no issue kicking your flat ass straight into the goddamn sun if that’s what it takes for some fuckin’ peace and quiet around here.” Dave’s still talking, as he always does, but- that’s good, usually. In Dirk’s experience, he only really needs to start worrying when Dave is quiet.</p><p>Dave has been very quiet during their strifes, lately. Not at the beginning, but towards the end.</p><p>Dirk is dealing with it. He is. The fact that he shouldn’t have to put up with any of Dave’s nonsense, though- that grates on him increasingly these days. As much as Dave wants him dead and gone, Dave is the one that Dirk doesn’t understand why Mother keeps around. A laugh isn’t worth this.</p><p>But of course, the redeeming factor is that she rarely lets him near her, never lets him touch her, if it isn’t a hug or a kiss on the cheek for the private eye. He knows it bothers Dave. He resists the urge to rub it in his brother’s stupid face, because there’s only so many accidental (please, let them be accidental) Oedipal intimations about touching that he can handle.</p><p>“Let’s just get this over with,” he says instead, sliding into a ready stance. It’s dismissive, a comment aimed to rile Dave up even more, because if there’s one thing that Dave despises more than Dirk besting him, it’s Dirk ignoring him.</p><p>“Ha, cute how you think I’m gonna go easy on you at all, kiddo, just ‘cause you’re my lil bro doesn’t mean you get any kinda special treatment. But like, you knew that already, I’ve been beating you into the dirt at this shit since before you could even fuckin’ hold that sword in your hand and I’ll be doing it no matter how good you think you get, ‘cause I’m better.” Dave equips his own sword- not his shitty, breakable katanas that he likes to use as throwaways, getting shards of metal everywhere, but his actual favored weapon, a broadsword with red gear detailing all up the hilt, and the Company logo bold and bright in red embossed on the blade. Dirk’s katana is slight, unadorned in comparison.</p><p>“Seems like you’re overcompensating for something,” he remarks instead, and ignores the thread of nerves that jolts through him. Dave doesn’t use that unless he’s particularly serious, or particularly pissed off, and Dirk- well. Dirk knows that from hard experience. He should’ve expected this, though; he didn’t miscalculate, Dave would’ve considered what he said to be an offense worthy of this anyway, regardless of the gala and what state they need to be in for it.</p><p>Dave just smiles, sharklike, and Dirk only has time to think that it’s hardly as effective as Mother’s before they’re off.</p><p>He’s put on the defensive immediately, but that’s not a surprise- Dave always has to win, always has to prove that he’s better, but Dirk has no idea who it is his brother is trying to prove this to. His shoulder is more chip than flesh, at this point. But that’s not his problem to figure out, and even if it was- he doesn’t have the spare energy to now.</p><p>Strifing is still exhilarating, maybe more so than it should be, but Dirk knows the patterns they fall into, the slow escalation. A flurry of blows to get things on the fucking road, trash-talking from both sides, his mouth running on auto-pilot and his body too.</p><p>(Sometimes, he thinks that this is the closest he’s ever going to come to understanding Dave. Sometimes, he thinks that this is the closest thing they’ve ever been to brothers. But most of the time, he doesn’t think about it at all.)</p><p>“What, tired already?” Dave asks, cocking an eyebrow when they break, the opening salvo done with for now.</p><p>“Please,” Dirk scoffs. “As if that was all it’d take to tire me out. I’ve got plenty of stamina, brother, don’t you worry about that.”</p><p>“Kinda think I’ll be the judge of that one, assuming you don’t get your throat slit off the bat, but hey, you’ve been decent at avoiding that so fa- oh,” Dave says. “Wait. Never fucking mind that one.”</p><p>So that’s the way it’s going to be, is it? Dirk simply offers his coldest sneer in return. “As if you’ve the skills for that anymore. You’re getting old, Dave, and you’ve grown slow and fat in your dotage. A fucking slug could probably beat you in a race at this point, and given the resemblance between the two of you, it’d be hard to tell who’s who.”</p><p>“Bitch, I have the body of a twenty-five year old,” Dave flips him off.</p><p>“Better give it back, you’re stretching it out,” Dirk shoots back.</p><p>And they’re off again, Dave flash-stepping forward until he’s right in front of Dirk, so close that he can see the way his teeth are faintly yellowed from a metric fuckton of unsavory substances as he snarls. Good. Fucking- good. Dirk wants to get his claws into Dave properly, and these superficial insults aren’t going to cut it, but- well. He can go for literal, rather than metaphorical, can’t he?</p><p>“You’re due a cleaning,” he points out, deflecting the downwards slash that comes right at him. “Shame it can’t be applied to your entire personality.”</p><p>“Least I have a personality, ma could’ve brought a fuckin’ Drone in to do your job and it’d still be better company than your sorry ass. Least it’d know how to listen, hell, maybe I’d hook that baby up to Bluetooth and play the illest beats from that motherfucker. Daft Punk, move the hell aside, it’s Crocker time.” Dave twists his sword to catch Dirk’s next attack, and Dirk presses into it for a second. He can’t quite beat Dave in a contest of raw strength- they’re close, but he wasn’t built for destruction the way his brother is- but he’s faster. And, well. Full offense meant to Dave, but he’s smarter too.</p><p>Dave’s grip falters for a split second, and Dirk takes the chance to swap to a one-handed grip and slam a fist right into his solar plexus. Nothing cracks or crunches, but from the dying animal wheeze that leaves his mouth and the way he stumbles back in surprise, Dirk knows his brother is going to have one hell of a bruise. There we go.</p><p>“Oh, you little fucking bitch,” Dave hisses out, barely getting his breath back. “Someone trying to fight dirty?”</p><p>“I’d be amazed if you knew how to fight clean,” he retorts.</p><p>Dave comes after him in earnest then, and Dirk’s caught up in his rhythm again. Dangerous, maybe, but this is a familiar dance. Dave taught him, and they know each other’s moves better than anyone around. And both of them are going hard this time. Metal clashes over and over, until Dirk feels the sweat pouring from his body, until his arms feel like lead and he still wants to keep going. He meets Dave’s eyes, and- yeah, he knows his brother feels the exact same thing. This is it, this is what they were made for, in the end, no matter how much they despise each other. It was always going to be this way.</p><p>A break for a single breath, and they keep going. Dirk gets a shallow cut along Dave’s arm, exchanged for one at his side, tearing the fabric of his tank top. His next blow is blocked, but he can see Dave’s feints coming a mile away, these days. The blows come harder, and harder, and he feels each block reverberating up his already sore arms, and that’s fucking good, because he’s the one doing this, this is his choice to push himself and push past his limits. Dirk goes in again, angling for Dave’s leg now in a flash, but Dave’s gone just as fast, dodging to the side. Dirk turns rapidly to parry, and metal screeches as their swords glance off one another, Dave shoving hard to get Dirk to stumble backwards. Dave wouldn’t have done it earlier, but he’s either desperate or furious enough to do it now. It wouldn’t have worked earlier, either, when Dirk wasn’t tired.</p><p>But this time- this time, he’s not as quick at regaining his balance, and Dirk flounders for just a split-second, but that’s enough for Dave to go in for the offensive as he always does. A single moment’s weakness costs everything, Dirk knows this, even as he just barely manages to right himself.</p><p>He sees the sword coming, calculates the angle of the hit from the way Dave’s arm bends, and he knows-</p><p>He has enough time to parry, a flick of the wrist and a shove with the last third of his own blade, if he’s moving forward- and he is, a half-step already-, and as fast as Dave is, he won’t be able to recover from the inertia faster than Dirk will be able to drive his katana right through his stomach. Not his chest, no. Dave doesn’t deserve for it to be that quick.</p><p>Dirk stops himself.</p><p>Dave’s ire is rarely worth risking, and if he lets this hit, he won’t have to deal with him later. He’s done enough, hasn’t he, already made this worse than it needs to be- first by mouthing off repeatedly, and now by fighting back, seeing openings where they exist. If he loses now, throws it in a way that Dave doesn’t notice, his brother will be insufferable in a way that does not involve any broken bones on his part.</p><p>So Dirk stops himself, and he hates it, every single second. He despises mediocrity, and while there has always been some small power in being underestimated, he knows he shouldn’t have to be. Not by Dave. He shouldn’t have to fucking pretend to be worse than he is to soothe the ego of a man who is barely his brother, just so he doesn’t get used as a punching bag later.</p><p>One day, he’s going to win, thoroughly and undeniably, and he knows it’s going to have to end with Dave bleeding out on the floor in front of him, too fast for even the nanotech he’s crawling with to save him. Mother would be furious, though. He’d need to time it right. But, a traitorous part of him whispers, if he waits long enough, he won’t have to time it at all. She’ll tell him to do it, right before she puts a fork through his own chest, and isn’t that funny?</p><p>Dirk lets the blow land, and he feels the shock of it slam right across his bicep and down to his side, a white starburst of pain. He grits his teeth and bares it, as he always has, even as the force of the hit nearly sends him flying. He barely manages to hang on to his katana as is.</p><p>He’s off balance enough for Dave to knock him over, but he lifts his sword anyway to block the incoming blow above him. He can’t make it look too easy, else that’s going to set Dave and his stupidly fragile pride off.</p><p>He goes down anyway, forced to one knee, and Dave looms above him in a way that’s too familiar. Dirk has to remind himself that this is different, that he’s letting it happen, that he has power here because if he really wanted, he could’ve won this. He reminds himself that he’s choosing to throw this for the sake of cohesion, for the sake of Mother and the Company, but the excuse has been ringing hollow for a long time now. He can’t even make himself believe it. He’d put on the fucking tiara himself now, if he thought it could make him believe it.</p><p>“Right where you belong,” Dave sneers, and there’s a hand coming his way, landing on his cheek so hard his shades go flying and clatter to the floor. Dave’s fingers dig into his cheek harsh, and his skin remembers soreness of where Mother’s were, even if Dave’s nails are pathetically human-blunt and won’t hurt as much. It doesn’t matter, when he could shatter Dirk’s jaw just as he is.</p><p>“Let go,” he says, biting back a snarl.</p><p>“Or what? You’re gonna make me, bro? I don’t think you can, but you’re the one who needs a fuckin’ reminder of that. ‘S a shame you need to be pretty for tonight, dude, I’m not gonna lie. Can’t do shit that won’t take more than a couple of hours to heal, but the day ma gets them sci fi healing tank shit like in your awful fuckin’ anime, or those magic beans or whatever? I’m gonna have so fuckin’ much fun when you can get fixed up with a dunk in ‘em and no questions from any goddamn nosy people at the infirmary.”</p><p>“I’d say the same, but you’re harder to kill than a cockroach, anyway. Less appealing and more annoying, too,” Dirk says. He doesn’t doubt Dave’s words for a second- and he suspects that there’s a reason that Mother hasn’t bothered with any human-compatible tanks, and it isn’t anything to do with sopor poisoning and overexposure or a lack of resources.</p><p>Dave squeezes tighter, and Dirk’s jaw creaks in protest. It won’t crack from this, but it’s a near thing. If it’s just a hairline fracture, he might be fine for tonight, but Dave isn’t good with delicacy that way.</p><p>Dirk wraps his fingers right around his brother’s wrist and squeezes equally tight. Dave is not good with delicacy, but he knows precisely how much force to use, where to apply it, and that Dave will have a job to do no matter what condition he’s in, especially if that condition is not immediately visible.</p><p>He sees in Dave’s face that this is going to cost him later. He doesn’t particularly care. He meets Dave’s gaze evenly despite how naked he feels without his shades, and he makes sure his eyes don’t give a damn thing away. He’s been without his glasses often enough, more so than Dave- he might be a gutterblood, but at least he wouldn’t have been culled on sight.</p><p>“You just want to fuckin’ test my patience and goodwill today, don’t you,” Dave whispers. “Go on, lil man. Go right the hell on, if you want to mouth off so badly when I’ve won fair and square, ‘cause you’re not as good as you think you are, you’re sloppy and your form’s a hot flaming mess, and you’re gonna need to fix that shit before ma asks for any demonstrations, but I’ll still wipe the goddamn floor with you like I did today. Fuck a sword, I’ve got a mop, and you’re just the mess that’s left because damn do kids not know how the fuck to clean up after themselves.”</p><p>Dirk nearly feels a laugh bubble up, hysterical. He tamps it down firmly- laughing in Dave’s face would be a very, very bad idea right now. But the idea that Dave is saying he doesn’t know how to clean up after himself? That’s irony if he ever heard it. He’s been cleaning up Dave’s messes since before he was old enough to recognize them, and he knows he’s not getting paid anywhere near enough to put up with this shit.</p><p>Yet here he is.</p><p>He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself quiet. Not today. Not now, not yet.</p><p>The iron tang of blood fills his mouth. Dave’s gaze sears into his own; they’re close enough that Dirk can see that same manic glint in his brother’s eyes that’s always there when he’s teetering on the edge of a bad decision (and sure, Dave doesn’t ever make good decisions, but there are bad calls, and then there’s the ones where he knows he’s going to get punished for it and thinks fuck it, and does it anyway), and he knows he’s already damaged e-fucking-nough without continuing to run his mouth.</p><p>The strife has gotten the worst of his excess energy out. He thinks. He hopes. The adrenaline will wear off, leaving him miserably sore and drop-dead tired as it always does, and he’s still landed a few hits on Dave, never mind that they feel like hollow victories when he gave up the game himself. And maybe he shouldn’t have done this before the gala, but the TiaraTop is always more palatable when he’s too tired to think, and he couldn’t risk being anything less than perfect there.</p><p>Dave leans away, his fingers loosening slowly. Dirk waits until his hand is lowered entirely to work his jaw, ignoring the pain that shoots through it. He wants to move back, but he doesn’t. He wants to say something still, but he doesn’t.</p><p>Dave takes that as a concession, ever the greedy victor, and he’s the first to step back and turn around.</p><p>“Don’t get cocky, kiddo,” Dave tosses his way as he saunters on out to the door. “I wouldn’t, if everything good about me came from a test tube.”</p><p>Dirk grits his teeth and doesn’t answer.</p><p>His grip on his sword tightens, until the wrappings of the hilt bite hard into his bare hands. Dave can’t stand to lose, but there’s only so much pride that Dirk is willing to sacrifice. He won’t have to endure this forever.</p><p>“And I’ll see your ass at the party, ma’s real psyched about it.”</p><p>Only when Dave’s gone does he pick himself up off the floor.</p><p>-</p><p>Dirk hates parties.</p><p>This might be heresy to some. Certainly, it would be to Dave, likely to Mother, although she does understand situations of prolonged interaction tire him, she simply tells him to</p><p>(<strong><span class="dave">OBEY</span></strong>)</p><p>show up and smile anyway, and reminds him he can be alone when the very last guest is gone. It may even be heresy to the more purple-hued trolls, although they’re nowhere in sight for this particular event, so he suspects they would be all-too ready to agree with him. There’s no party like the Dark Carnival, after all, with its thrum of chucklevoodoos and miasma you can taste in the air. Or that’s just greasepaint and blood. He can’t tell.</p><p>There’s none of that here. No, not for a Company Gala. Sorry, a <strong><span class="dave">COMPANY GALA</span></strong>. This is a proper event, all piled champagne flutes and an open bar, corporate guests and potential enemies, persons of interest and persons to be eliminated, all mingling together in a grand ballroom. It isn’t at the mansion, of course; Mother would never want this in her home, but it is at one of the more elegant properties she owns. It’s as gaudy as Versailles in here, and likely twice as rich.</p><p>Dirk keeps his smile on his face perfectly, even if his cheeks ache. All of him aches, actually; his head aches a little with the weight of his TiaraTop, carefully perched in his hair, and the rest of him is sore from before. He has a careful catalogue of the bruises and stitches from his strife with Dave. But he can rest assured knowing that Dave is sporting a faint limp all the way across the room, and that every step is going to be tinged with pain. He has to enjoy the small things, after all.</p><p>And it’s certainly more enjoyable than the company he’s currently keeping. All Dirk really needs to do is nod politely when spoken to, offer platitudes and keep a track of names and faces, who he’s talked to and who’s avoiding him, and he can remain in one place and let the guests come to him.</p><p>Dave is the one handling the dirty work tonight, after all, and so he’s the only one who needs to vanish into the crowd and reappear. Dirk keeps track of his movements automatically, the camera feed grainy and small on one lens of his shades, but it’s enough to save the footage. Mother will want to see it later. Likely while eating an unholy combination of popcorn and Gushers, and laughing. To each their own, he supposes. There’s a reason Mother and Dave get along better- just as there’s a reason that Dirk is the one she relies on more. Not that Dave is capable of admitting it.</p><p>Perhaps their conversation after the strife is weighing on him. But that’s unimportant. He can’t let his smile falter, after all.</p><p>He catches movement in the corner of his eye- Dave is back for the third time in a deep red suit that’s subtly different from the last two he’s worn, giving him a brief one-fingered salute, before turning to dazzle the next person on his list with a smile. Somewhat literally. Dave is very good at smiling, after all.</p><p>Dirk resists the urge to cross the room and break his finger. He’s certainly not allowed to do that, and making a scene would be terrible besides. He’ll have to save it for next time. There’ll be hell to pay, he’s sure, but for once he’s certain it’ll be worth it.</p><p>He’s busy imagining the look of startled pain on Dave’s face in this hypothetical scenario, and that’s why he startles at the hand on his shoulder.</p><p>It sends a jolt right through him, but Dirk doesn’t wince. He’s good at not wincing. The issue is, however, that he’s currently being touched when he shouldn’t be.</p><p>Reasons he is allowed to be touched tonight: handshakes, firm and polite; kisses, one per cheek, reserved for the more enthusiastic ladies; kisses, one on an extended hand, reserved for those he has to charm; dancing, unfortunate but necessary, a hand in his and one on his shoulder; a fist to any part of his body, if necessary; his fingers to another’s neck, just for a split second before he drags the knife across it; and, of course, the inevitable brushing up against others.</p><p>He turns, still smiling, to ask if something is the matter, if the other had nearly fallen and if they needed to sit down and examine their shoes, because he can’t react badly, he has to</p><p>(<strong><span class="dave">OBEY</span></strong>)</p><p>Behave, not cause a scene.</p><p>And he promptly freezes, when he sees who it is.</p><p>John goddamn Egbert, bane of his entire existence, in an offendingly bad disguise consisting of a mustache so obnoxious it has to be fake, and a little grey coloring at his temples.</p><p>(Dirk is absolutely not going to examine why he finds that attractive, or even acknowledge to Egbert that he does.)</p><p>“What are you doing here?” He hisses out. He doesn’t look at John fucking Egbert, who is most certainly not supposed to be here, and who is going to get his ass fucking slaughtered if it’s discovered that he is. Dirk hasn’t seen him on any of the camera feeds, which is a good thing.</p><p>“ǫ̵̧̜̘̖͔͎͇̣̻͖̤̹͊̅̈͛̎͝ḩ̶̡̨̡̡̟̟͖͉̪̗̪̤̀̒̑̓̀̚,̷̡̢̪͎̱̳͒̈́͆̃̃̔̕͝ ̵̜̜̳̜̦͔̟̤̐̊͆̀̈́͑y̶̨͇̕o̶̢̗͛̉̅̑̽͑́̆̋͒̾̈͝ų̷͎͇͓͖̪̭͑̈́̏̚̚͠ ̷̨̛͖̤̳̳͖͙̳̱̫͍̞̾̋̌̐̆̓̆̅̏̕̚͝͝k̸̻̳̤̙̳̊̊̌̿̄̈̉̋̌̕͠ͅṇ̸̨̱̺͎̥̞͈̓̀̒̃͛͗̽̋̆͛̾̀͝ỏ̴̘̞̻̝͓̯̹́͑̇̎ͅw̸̡̢̧̝̺̣̤̪̹̤̹̱̼̋̂,” Egbert says, twirling one end of his stupid cartoon villain mustache. “İ̸̛̬̬̤͎͆̇̑̔̈́̑’̷̨̠͍͙̼̞͓̤̤̲̮̭͎͎͐m̷̛̞͈̮̫̙̫̬̣̳̝͆͒̉ ̴̢̢̡̰̹̹̬̳̜̙͓̒́̿̇̍̃̄̃̈͂̽̕̚j̴̨̡͚͎̗̝͖̩͇̪̗̯̼͉̒͊̆͛̓͝u̴̢̡̹̪̰̳͂̓̐͛s̸͙̟̭̣̘̰̐̈́̓͋͆͆͗̎͛̏͠ͅt̵̢͙̲̫̝͙̻̫͗̋̓̅̔ͅͅ…̷̛̠͕͔̣̜͗̔͋̑̅̅̑̄̚͜ͅd̴̹̣̮̖̞̞̙̮̚͝r̵̘̫̦̠̯̠̐̉̄̅́̂ơ̴̖͍͉̝͕͖͕̯̖̓̅͒͊̀͊̕͝p̶̧̳̫̻̺͈̣̭̤͕͊̇p̷̛͖̤̪͔̬̩̪̻̥̙͐̔͗͗̆̾̐̅̽͊͜͜͠͠i̴̡̧̞̭͚̬̯̠̮͕̦͒́ͅn̶̢̯̱̞͎͉̥̘̼̙̦̳̣̙͆̅͊̈̽͋ͅg̴̢̢̛̛̹͕̭̬̤̖̤̝̣̯̠̝͓̉̑͘͝ ̵̼̟̟̄͜į̷̟̣͚͉̲͈̹͖̞̘̹̎̐́̍̋̎̊͗̉̀̿̈́̈́n̸̨̧̫̦̝̟͈͓̝̱͗̓̈̀̒͝ͅͅ.̷͚̩̘̱̗̤͈̳̼̪͍̗̆̓̄͛̐́̒͒́͊͒̕̕͝”̴̧̭̩̪̭̩͓͈̦̟̮̫̒̊̒̋̒͝.”</p><p>“…What?” Dirk blinks a little. He has no idea what Egbert just said; all he heard was a mouthful of static, and there’s a drone incessant in the back of his head, worsening his migraine.</p><p>
  <strong> <span class="dave">UNAUTHORIZED CONTENT DETECTED.</span> </strong>
</p><p>“Į̶̛͍͇͇͇͇͙͚͖̮̆̏̎̈́͐̍̉̃͐̓͜ ̴̧̢̯̱͕̖̜̬̲̬̟͚̿̏̀̄͛́̕͘s̸͉̟͈̞̥̣̼̔̑͆͛͜͜ą̶̢̨͍̤͕̩̺̭͉̀̓̈̾͑̌̐̈́̈͂̽̅͂͘̚͜i̸̡̤̳̜̖̹̙͋̇̄̿̈͝ͅͅd̷̳̳̲̤̱̲̞̆̌́͊͒͘͜͠ ̸̖͔̹̮̫̬̗͉̺̖̬̌̆̿̋̄̂͌͘Ĭ̴͕͉̞̮̻̽̒̈́̋̿̉̏͑̿͌̈͛̚ ̷̻̩̟̬̝͖̙̺̗̺̥̹̹̩͑͊̊͌w̸̠͙͙͖̼̜̘̪͗͒̋̀̆̈̎͑̽́͝͝͝ͅȧ̷̢̡͖͍͎̣͖̹͎̓̾̉̔̓̾s̵̡̫͎̘̟͔̎̈́̈́̈́́͆̒̐͐̍͊͘ ̵̨̘̻͓͍̤̈̈́́͆̆͐̽͋̃j̷̡͎͍̭̥̓͘ụ̵̡͈̙̒̄̿̿̔̔͌̃̕s̶̡̛̗̩̘̟̟̤̹͉̱̣͊̂̾̒̈́̈́̚ͅẗ̵̖̯̤̊̈́̄̅͊̎̈́͘ ̸̨̢͚͗͜d̷̨̒̀̒̐͒̄̿͑͘r̷͍̻̺͍̬͇̜̫̕ͅơ̸̛̛̛̰͕͙̟̰̘̪̪̫͎̠̲̰̐̀̈̌̑͑̓̈́̚͝p̴̨̧̧̨̨̧͙͎̺̣̙̮̰̹̎p̴̛̼̼̳̖͔̮̺̋͑͆̓̀̌͑͊̈̚͘͘͝i̵̫̳̝̊̈́͌̌̐̀͆͛n̴̡͉͕̣͔̦̪̭͔̣̠̈́͂͆̔̔̃̾̄͐̆̕͜͜͝g̴̥̗̠͓̗̞̞͈̻͝ ̷̧̢̛͍̞̟̟̖͇͈͖̖̝̇̌͐̈́͂̎̇͐͘̚i̶̡̬͎̗̣̍͘n̸̟͚̘̘̱̫͎̤̼͕̠̹͎͋̂́̉̽͗̓͒͒̾.̶̧̧̛̲̬̭̱̯͇͊̔̊͊̈́͋͛ ̷̧̲͇̲̦̬̫͊͋̒͊̑͐̕W̶̯̬̟̪̑h̵̡̦͙̣̄͐̅̆̕͝a̵̡̢̪̝̭̲͉̞͔̋̓͌͌̿̆̾̏́t̵͗̿͊͂̀͛̽͊͆̿̊͊̏͜ ̴̛̺̻͒̈́̓̇̎̅͆̊̈́̈́ą̴̧̛̩̠͓̜̙͋̉̃̂̌̓͑͒̏̓̋̽̂ͅr̷̠̩͎̋e̷̞͛͐̃̓̓ ̸͈̦̟͓̮͎̈́ͅy̶̨̻̼̠͔̙̰̻̫͇̝̩͜͝ǫ̴̝͔̫͚͚̯͎͇̿͑u̵̳͑͌̽̾̾̌̀͝ ̷̛͕̥t̵͚̑̿̇͆͊r̵̡̛̩̱͎͔̱̘̹̻̝̀̈́̂̚͝y̸̟̩̬͎̒̓͐͌̋̐͐̀̔̈́̕͜i̶̹̔̎̀̀͋͑͆̃͌͘͠͝͠ň̴̰̰̬͓̆̎̎̔̚͝͝g̶͉̥̾̔̈́̒̐̿͒̀̓̋ ̵͙̦͈̙̍̿̾̓̍̾̿͠t̶̠͕͈̜͍̪̒͋̽͗͐̌o̷̧̡̼̲̼̹̟̱̩̤͙̤̪͑͑̿͂͒̎̊̀͛͊ͅ ̷̹̈́̉͋͂͊̂̉́̕̚͝p̴̘̱̐͐͊̾͗̉̋͂̓́̿̋ļ̶̤̪̖̘̯͍̫͍̜̝͕́̇̏̃̌̅͐͌̈́̔̉͝ȧ̸̺͔͍͇͎̮̗͔̘̗̪̞͓͝y̴̺͑̓̒̋̊́̉̚͘ ̸̡̽̾̑̃͒͛̅̑̊̉a̴̙̻͈̪̜͙̤͓̒̏̎̍̄̋͜͝͠ť̷̨̢̛̠̞̜͔̰͔͈̯̖̺̦̳̿͂͂̀͐͜,̴̧͉͇͉͕̼͓̟̬̫̹̖̤͙̹̀̔̀̈́̐ ̷̡̺̝̭͇̜̲̣̤͓̯͂̐̌͆̒̆͐͐̍̒̕̕M̷̨̩̟̘̥̯͍̖̻̮̥̦̙̥̈́̄̑r̸͍͈̻̹̮͓͈̼̦̱̪̯͗͐͒̒̏͐̄̏̓̔̈̕̕͜.̷̛̤͖͑̕͝ ̸̢͓̞͈̣̥͇̣̍̾͋͌̇ͅC̶̡̬̗̻̩̮̞̲̙̀̀̊͆͊̆͘͘r̶̨̋͛̾͛̚ō̴͓̰̺͉̹̓̉͛͌̽̐̽͘͠ͅç̸̝̠̩̺̥͚̗̻̋͂͜͝k̸̮̦̲̠̖͍͉̺͈͎̊̚e̷̲̟̰̝͙͍͐͆̐̐͐͝ṟ̸̪̩̄̔̇ͅ?̸̤͒͊̓̒̒͌͗̽́̏̇̚͝͠ ̸̛͎͓̱͓̦̆͛̋̌̇͆͂̈́̏̈̉͝Ǐ̸̢͇̙̺̞͕͕͈̭̬̲̭͖̺͋͂̏ͅt̵̛̳̱̻̩̲͌̊̈́͂̎̊̒̈́͋̂'̵͙̙̣̹̤͚̟̝͇̰̎̓̈́͝ͅͅs̴̨̧͕̠̠͈͛̐͘ ̶̢̨͍̹̜̞̻̪̯͐̅̈̊̎̿͊̏̉͑n̷͉̭̖̄̒̌̀̂̆̏͌̍͂̅͠ô̷̢̨̬̣̻͓̩̬̺͍̥̥̪͇̂̈́́̔̊͑͒̅̓̅̓͝ṭ̸̬͍̠̠͕͉̣̰̱̺̉̒̅̽͂̂̿͑̑̓̐̈́̉͝ ̸̰̺̼̻̙̒̾̌̈́̈̉̈́͜ͅl̷̢̺̺̙̳͇̠̗̖̄͑̕͜ͅi̵̤̻͚͂̽̋͑̅͑̃̾͘̚k̶̬̬͖̝̱̩̳͉̠̭̦̻͕̥̍͊̃͂̐̈́̒̐̓̓̈́̕̕̕ể̶̡͍̤͉͛̔̅̽͒́͠ ̵̛̞̜̙̯̖̝̰͚̥̰̦̯̯͙̔͊͑̕y̷̳̲̮̟͐͆̽̄̎̒͑̈̕͜ỡ̵̡̧̭͊̾̍ű̶̧̳̠̭̝̞͙̳̓́̎̔̓̔̄͑͊̄̿̚͘͠ ̶̧͎͈̝̘̯̙̦͇̑ṯ̷̢̳͔̪̑͌o̷̢̨̘͖͓̜̩̪͗̎̈ ̶̛͎̲̖̝̝͙̪̃̐̾́̐͋͗̆̃̑̕͜b̶̨̬͍̥͈̠̝̖̼͔̓̍̐̄͌̏̈́̃̋͜ͅë̴̱̳̙̫̤̦́͐ ̵̛͖̎͐͜͜d̸̢͙͔̱̪͈̻͓͉͕͙̲̗͍͑̾͗̏͂̂̏̏̆̈́̓̕͠ͅḛ̴͎̭͇̠̦͗̏͑͑̿̆̔̈́̋͆̚͜͝͝ļ̵̜̭̼̼̩͇̺̮̟̩̠̂͋̐̅i̶̥͚͎̰͍̾̊̑͊̚͝b̷͉͒̒̈́͋̔̽̊͆͠͝e̷̢̩̪̲̭̜̼̪̻͕͓̹͇͗̄̈́͛͘͜͜r̸̳͓̼̹̤͈͖͔̫̖̳̘̫͊͗̅̎̈́̊̈́̌͌͗̿͌̌͝ã̶̡̧̱̺̞̝̥̈́͐̔͐ͅţ̵̞̭̼͈̥̲̈́̉͒̆͆͊̎̎̈́̃̎̉̚͜͝ę̵͕̤̮̫͉̣͎̥̲̮̼͖̓̐l̴̩͙͕̬̠̯̤̦͕͛̃̎̀̄̔͆̐̌͘̕͠y̷̨͔̝̠͍̠̱̪̲̦̺̯͖̳̭̋̆̽ ̸̢̧͙̫̥̹̮̯̘͉̭̬̝͎͕͂̑͒͑͑̋̚̚͘͝ǫ̴̧͖̮̥̠̻͌̀̆͋͗̈͐͋b̴̺̱̝̂̌̋͛̊̔̾̄̔͠t̴̨̜͖̜̝̥̗̺̼̼̤̞̺̊̑͘͠ŭ̸̩̓̅͛̊̑͂̏̽̔͘͘ş̵̺͍̣͙͖̰͖̹̬̅ḙ̵̖̣̂̅̈̉͂̎͒͝͝.̸̛̱̮͓̬͕͓̤͊͌͆̎͂̔̾̃.” Dirk watches his mouth move, and he can pick up the words here and there, but they blur even in his vision, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut as the room threatens to spin around him. Something about being deliberately obtuse. And that’s his last name, there. So- nothing important is being said.</p><p>
  <strong> <span class="dave">UNAUTHORIZED CONTENT DETECTED.</span> </strong>
</p><p>His fucking head.</p><p>“Stop-,” he says, reaching out blindly. His hand makes contact with Egbert’s chest, broad and warm even under the pressed layers of his shirt, and Dirk would register how good he looked right now, if he wanted to risk looking at him at all, with this thing on.</p><p>“W̷̥̹͇̙̲̜̽̒̈͒̒͛̿͑̕̚̚h̸͖͍̗̦͖̺͍̯̱̠̤̳̾̊̆̈́̅̅̔̓͊͛̓͘͜a̵̳̻͎̹̓̐̏̈́̕͘͘t̵̡͙̬̳̣͎̪̱̹̰͙̪̽̽͗ͅͅ’̶̧̞̝̥̥̫̼̟̗̺͉͙͆͑͝ͅs̸̛͉͖̫̙̪̍̃ͅ ̷̳͕̰̈̈́̚w̴̨̝̭̦̦̯̹͓̭̠̺͌͛̈̕í̴̛͔͔̙̻̞͍̽̓̈̔̓ţ̸̛̥̯̋̔h̷̢̨̘̰̖̪͍̞̤̘̺̹̮̳̑̈̑̚ ̶̤͙̝͚̘͛͛̑͜ͅͅẗ̷̺̘͇̰̖͉̯̝̣̫̳͕ͅh̸̠̹̻̭̗̜͈̣̻͛̔̇̒̄͐̃͊̿̂̚͝ͅē̸̡̨̢̛̲̩͙̦͔͈͍̣̄̀̂͛̾̊͛̊͝ ̵̡̢̩̠̻̠̥̣̹̼͍̓̇̾̑̑̃̑̔̓̋͊͊̕͘͜d̴̫͉̹͕̺̻͔̖͑͂̅̉̈́ų̶͔̩͚͍͑̄̊̆͊̈́̏̒͝m̶͍̫̺͖̗͐͝͝b̸̡̡̧̧̝͚͚̝̺͕̰͍͓̀ ̷̠͌̆̇̈́͛͊́̌̚̚͘̚͠͠t̷̡͈͔̬̳̯̣͚͎͕̜̞̿͂͛̑̍̆̉̅̂î̶̙͍͑̄̀͗̑͐̆̆͛̾́̅͝a̷̱̯̥͐̈͐r̸̨̡̜͙̲̲͚̫̫̲̤͚̩̫̆̓͂͌̌̒͜a̸̧̧̛̙̺͇̹̮̳̦̣̒͆̔̇̊̃̃̈́͌͘,̶̢̱̣̼̤̈̃̎̽̓͆͋͆̋̍͆̆ ̴͍͔̦͖̼͖̮̈̌̆͂̆̉͐̃̅̊͘͘͝a̷̡̦̬̣͔̞̱̯̘͈͚͌̿̌͝ͅn̷̲̼̬͍̖͓̞̫͓̗͈͒̄͒́̉̔̓͜y̷̛̠̠̘̟̤̘̓͊͌̓̈́̈́́̃͘̚͠w̷̧̯̙̝͊͊̓̒͊̋͒ḁ̸̪̱̖͎͙̜̹͎͈͖̻͉́̀̅̽͗̏ͅy̴̡̱̹̲̘̙̬̮̻̱̅̈́͊̐̍?” Egbert says, because he’s never learned to fucking listen. Dirk doesn’t even try to dignify that with an answer.</p><p>
  <strong> <span class="dave">UNAUTHORIZED CONTENT DETECTED.</span> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <span class="dave">  </span> </strong>
</p><p>“I said stop,” he repeats. He has to work to enunciate it around clenched teeth and sound polite. It’s a good thing that Dirk has had a lot of practice in sounding polite when he doesn’t mean it at all. “And it’s- work-related.”</p><p>He would be concerned about that being a slip, but there isn’t anything he can say that would be one with it on. For once, he’s grateful for that.</p><p>(A very small, very quiet part of Dirk right now resents this, but that’s fine. He’s long-since accepted it as a reality, and it’s so difficult to keep up resentment when he has to</p><p>
  <strong> <span class="dave">OBEY</span> </strong>
</p><p>smile and be polite for the guests.)</p><p>“You need to-,” he stops. He can’t say that. It’s bad enough he got away with his earlier greeting, but surprise is accounted for. No one is meant to touch him tonight in a way outside of his own control. <strike>Outside of Mother’s commands.</strike> “Excuse me,” he says instead. “I- need to attend to something. I’ll see you later, of course, and- enjoy the party, feel free to mingle.”</p><p>That’s safe enough to think, and so it’s safe enough to say. It has to be. He can’t tell John to stay the fuck out of sight, that he shouldn’t be here, because even acknowledging that would be dangerous right now. He feels the TiaraTop digging its fingers into his skull as it always does, claws raking against the inside of his brain, and he tamps down a bout of nausea. He hates wearing it-</p><p>
  <strong> <span class="dave">OBEY</span> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <span class="dave">THE CROCKERCORP UNREAL HEIR THOUGHTWAVE TIARATOP IS A FASHIONABLE ACCESSORY THAT IS THE UTMOST PLEASURE TO WEAR. YOU ARE LUCKY TO WEAR IT.</span> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <span class="dave">OBEY</span> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <span class="dave">SUBMIT</span> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <span class="dave">SUBMIT</span> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <span class="dave">SUBMIT</span> </strong>
</p><p>In the corner of his brain that still belongs to him, if barely, Dirk studiously does not look at John. Whatever response he has to give his lost in a wave of static, but he’s sure that the message is more than fucking received. John’s seen him with this <strike>fucking loathsome piece of shit machinery he can’t even tamper with, can’t even fix to make it better</strike> <strong><span class="dave">FASHIONABLE ACCESSORY</span></strong> on his head, he knows what’s up.</p><p>And Dirk doesn’t feel any kind of way about that, of course not. What does it matter what one person thinks? He already knew exactly the kind of contempt that he’s held in, he’s known from the beginning, and no matter what offers he might make or soft, seemingly-tender moments might pass between them, Dirk knows better than to believe it’s real.</p><p>And none of this is something he can focus on, anyway, not with how his head feels like it’s splitting in two. He walks as slowly as he can, meandering, and even talks to people because he has to, because it won’t fucking let him go fast, or be rude, or be anything less than perfect, all the while his brain feels like it’s going to melt out of his ears.</p><p>He finally manages to get at the bathroom, and he locks the door behind him and resists the urge to sink right to his knees. He gets the lights off, and the sounds of the party are muffled, but he swears he can still see smears of light in faint circles where the bulbs have long gone out. He feels the ache in the pulp of his teeth. It’s incredible that he’s not bleeding.</p><p>He needs to get his shit together.</p><p>There are three things he needs to focus on, and they’re simple, and direct, and they’re what Mother wants.</p><p>One, schmoozing. He’s not talented at it, but with the TiaraTop on, he doesn’t need to worry about that.</p><p>Two, keeping an eye on Dave. That, he’s very good at, and his shades are going to make it much easier.</p><p>Three, ensuring that the business end of things is wrapped up, and that everyone who disappears tonight has been recorded leaving, manufactured footage or not, and that any cameras that capture their disappearance only have the footage rerouted for Mother to look at later.</p><p>
  <strike>Four, don’t think about John Egbert, don’t even try to find him. No one is here who isn’t supposed to be. No one is here. He’s not meeting anyone afterwards.</strike>
</p><p>He feels calmer for having listed these out mentally, and he knows <strike>(and hates)</strike> and is grateful for how the TiaraTop amplifies their importance in his head, makes them crowd out all the other thoughts. It’s helpful, sure, especially since the pounding in his skull eases up marginally now that it’s assured that he’s decided to</p><p>
  <span class="dave">SUBMIT.</span>
</p><p>and that makes it all the<strike> worse</strike> better.</p><p>Dirk makes himself stand up, and the TiaraTop takes care of the rest. He watches his hand lift, turn the lights back on, and his eyelids don’t close when he tells them to, so it’s a starburst of too-bright that sears at his retinas, even through shades. He watches his hand unlock the door, and open it, and let the waiting person in. He feels his mouth stretch right back into a smile as he makes the appropriate apologies, and his legs walk him right back into the throng of the crowd.</p><p>A ping on his shades, another name off the list.</p><p>Dirk Crocker returns to work, now that his mandated five minute break is over. His shift will not end for another three hours, and he is such a good, obedient worker, that he’ll even be putting in overtime to clean up afterwards.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tl;dr- Dirk and Dave strife, Dirk attends a company gala, has to wear his TiaraTop, which fucks him up, and runs into John there.</p><p> Art by ectobaby, and it is gorgeous as always! Literally blew me away when he showed it to me. Find him on <a href="https://ectoobaby.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> or <a href="https://www.instagram.com/ectobaby/">instagram</a>. </p><p>The art itself in higher quality is here, since AO3 is still nomming on the quality some lmao.</p><p>As always, if you've questions, I'm on <a href="https://quixxotique.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Trigger Warnings: Uh, this one's just sex. The tiaratop is mentioned.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John Egbert sits in a room in a hotel, whose location he’d just been messaged from a completely random number, and this isn’t shady or a trap at all, nope. But it’s neutral and inoffensive in the way that only truly mediocre hotels can be; patterned pale wallpaper, white sheets neatly made up, convenient but not too convenient. It isn’t CrockerCorp owned, he’d gotten to choose the room, and he’s sitting here by himself even though it’s been a full hour since he’d gotten any kind of news about <em>why</em> he’s here, instead of anywhere else.</p><p>John likes to think that he’s used to the routine by now: evade the increasingly over the top security measures (although, these days he’s pretty sure there are holes left deliberately in them that only <em>he</em> can find, and the patronization in that is just- ugh, infuriating, but John likes to think he could get in without them), wait for Crocker (and snoop through his office, sometimes finding absolutely nothing, sometimes finding something he <em>thinks</em> is important only to follow the trail as far as it goes afterwards and realize there’s nothing to it but an elaborate dick joke or a movie recommendation or a blistering diatribe about <em>his</em> taste in movies, like John would ever eat any of that corporate garbage the elder Crocker brother churns out), banter with Crocker (enjoyable and unavoidable, he has a mouth on him), fight Crocker (sometimes, but not always, and he hates losing to that brat sometimes, he really does), and fuck him afterwards (often, but not always, but John usually feels filthy and angry and sad for some reason afterwards, when Dirk leaves him in the bedroom alone).</p><p>Point is- there’s a process to this whole thing, and John knows that’s something that Dirk Crocker adores and adheres to more than he does anything. Those rules he sets that seem totally pointless and arbitrary to John (okay, some are just common sense, but still), and that John happens to coincidentally love breaking to rile him up, govern the entirety of their interactions, and always have. Right from the beginning.</p><p>And okay, maybe John went and fucked that up when he showed up at the gala, but he doesn’t think that’s entirely on him.</p><p>So, the steps. Security measures were evaded at the gala, which he’ll count since he got there in one piece, and he’s waiting for Crocker right now. Much longer than he’s ever had to, before.</p><p>It’s honestly a surprise when there’s a quiet knock on the door, so soft that John almost doesn’t hear it, but he leaps to his feet to open it up. It swings open silently, and there’s Dirk on the other side, looking unobtrusive and- God, thank fucking God- tiara-free.</p><p>He got through the first two steps just fine, but when it comes to bantering- and John has been saving up some <em>really</em> good zingers, because he’s not going to get caught flat-footed by Crocker and his dumb, sharp tongue again-, and Crocker just looks at him before sighing deeply, John knows there’s something wrong. It doesn’t matter if his day has been terrible or amazing, there’s always been something entirely unflappable about Dirk Crocker. John’s always had to work for every reaction, crack open his mask and pry them out after rooting around inside.</p><p>This time, though, he can tell that Crocker looks <em>tired</em>.</p><p>(And thank fucking god that stupid <em>tiara</em> isn’t on his head anymore, John hates the sight of it on him, he hates even <em>looking</em> at the thing, knowing what it stands for, what it does. He just didn’t expect for Crocker to look so unlike himself while wearing it. He’s not sure what to do with that. He’ll- figure it out. It’s a process, okay!)</p><p>“You- what were you even <em>doing</em> there?” Crocker finally hisses, and there it is, that crack in the façade that John so loves putting there. Dirk Crocker is human, under everything, and John is determined to show him that, if only because he knows it’ll destroy him.</p><p>The issue here is that John isn’t the one who’s done any of that, and he feels a pang of- something, in his chest, before he brushes it away. He’s got to be sharp for their sessions; it’s always a fight, and he earns every reaction that he manages to get, and so what if it feels good to be able to do that? As far as John can tell, every little crack in that mask is a victory for him, is Dirk Crocker getting closer to realizing- something. That he’s human, that he doesn’t have to be this way. At the very least, he’s going to learn empathy or something, right?</p><p>“What, you’re not happy to see me? I’m real offended, Crocker,” John says, after a beat. He’s shocked, sure, but he can rally. He is rallying.</p><p>Until Crocker just looks at him, and doesn’t rise to the bait.</p><p>“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, pointed. “I had work to do there, and- Christ, Egbert, do you have a single brain cell remaining? Did you think it was going to give you a good angle at Mother, or Dave, or me? Assassinations don’t work that well in public, not via warhammer, and you’re hardly good enough with other weapons or subtlety to carry it out.”</p><p>“Now that’s just- rude,” John tells him. “And besides, do I look like the kind of person to care about what things you need to get done? Because I am <em>pretty</em> sure I’ve interrupted you plenty before. And you were working <em>fine</em> even though I was there, and I’ve been sneaking into these things for ages, so what’s the big deal now?”</p><p>He waits for Crocker to say something about ‘the big deal is that you’re a pain in the ass even without it being literal’, or, like, something equally snarky but probably dealing more psychic damage, but none of it happens, and this is just- not how any of this is meant to work. He seems- genuinely upset. John isn’t sure which part of that is weirder, either, the genuine one, or the upset one. Or the bit where it might be, maybe, on John’s behalf. Oh, god. It really, really can’t be.</p><p>Crocker just sinks into the nearest chair, an uncomfortable hotel thing that John wouldn’t trust to hold <em>any</em> ass.</p><p>“Fucking <em>Dave</em>,” he mutters, and pinches at the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“Uh.” John feels a bit superfluous, at this point. He knows that other people would just describe their interactions as pulling on each other’s pigtails in the playground (but with more sex, except he does try to keep the sex part quiet, only Rose knows about that), but he likes to think that he knows Dirk Crocker enough to be able to tell that something is wrong.</p><p>Well, actually, the fact that he <em>can</em> tell something is wrong means that it has to be drastically wrong, right? He didn’t even have to say anything, the guy was already in a bad mood. Not that John would think that <em>anyone</em> would be in a good mood after wearing that thing for hours, but- he remembers the look on Dirk’s face, he remembers seeing him practically flee for the bathroom (at some kind of weird, business formal composed pace), and then come back out like a corporate robot not even ten minutes later, not even looking at John again.</p><p>Strangely, he feels kind of cheated. Even worse, he feels- bad, almost. Yeah. Almost.</p><p>“What,” Crocker bites out. It’s not a question.</p><p>“Are you like. Okay?” John trails off on the last word, realizing that it is fucking <em>ridiculous</em> that he’s even asking. He shouldn’t be, at all. It’s one thing to maybe, kind of privately, want the guy to show feelings (now that he knows at least two of them exist) or to show a little bit of vulnerability (now that he also knows that exists), but to actually ask about it? John knows he’s made a misstep. Especially when Crocker’s shaded gaze is staring directly at him.</p><p>He notices that there’s a hairline crack in the dark glass, and he frowns a little. That’s new. That’s- definitely not right. Crocker doesn’t even let John touch his dumb shades- and, okay, John knows he shouldn’t be setting himself up as someone who might conceivably do it, given the fact that they’re still kind of enemies, but seriously, he doesn’t think anyone else really has the chance to-, so who did that?</p><p>It’s such a glaring flaw that John has to step back and wonder if this is all some weird act, and if Crocker is going to shout ‘gotcha’ at any point in time and slam a pie into his face. Not that he shouts. Or that he has a pie around here, to be fair. But the pies always come when you least expect them. John knows that from childhood experience. The only reason that this is probably a metaphorical pie rather than a literal one is that Dirk Crocker has not once shown a shred of wanting to smash John’s face into any kind of baked good before, which is a big chunk of the reason why he’s stuck around. Yeah. Definitely the lack of shitty boxed cake and candy.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Crocker says. Because of course he is, and why wouldn’t he be? John feels kind of dumb for asking.</p><p>“Would you, like. Say if you weren’t?”</p><p>Okay, he probably deserves the look of contempt he gets for that one. Obviously, he wouldn’t. That’s fine. John wouldn’t confide in this guy, either. Not even under duress or torture or whatever, which- he’s also not going to think about.</p><p>“It was a bad idea,” Crocker tells him. He’s still not looking at John, and John has to push away the childish want to insist that he does. That’s also super dumb. It would just be kind of better if he did. That’s all. “Something could’ve happened. If Dave had seen you-,”</p><p>“The Batterwitch suddenly calls a gathering with half her best friends and half her enemies, and like, fifteen people we’ve been trying to get on our side, and you thought I could just, like, sit that one out?” John asks, frowning now. “Because, seriously. You’re meant to be the smart one. You know that out of all of them, I’m probably the most at home at things like that, and, like. Also the only one that was free.”</p><p>“…Are you telling me you were there by yourself?”</p><p>“Well when you put it like that, it sounds bad.”</p><p>“I can’t believe that Lalonde sent you there alone.” His voice is strained now, and John can see the tension leaking into his shoulders. It’s like watching clay harden <strike>and start to crack</strike> in real time.</p><p>And John…really doesn’t have an answer for that one. Awkwardly, he looks away. “She didn’t know.”</p><p>“She what.” He doesn’t need to be looking at Dirk to know that he’s shifted now, his attention all on John. Great. Maybe he should stop wanting stuff like that, because it keeps coming true in the worst ever way.</p><p>(He’s not relieved, he isn’t. He- it would be <em>really</em> stupid to be relieved to have Dirk Crocker here and actually looking at him, because he couldn’t do it earlier.</p><p>“I was in the neighborhood,” John shrugs. More accurately, he’d been planning to drop by Dirk’s, but when he’d heard about the party, and how many people would be there- well. He couldn’t not go, right? It’s got nothing to do with the fact that Dirk Crocker was going to be there either, not at all. It was just, recon. Last minute, unplanned recon, that…he really is going to get crucified for. Oh, no. Maybe he really should’ve thought this one out.</p><p>John squirms a little under the intensity of the disapproval in Dirk’s glare. Jeez. He has no right to be nearly as scary about that as Rose does- and the only reason it’s <em>nearly</em> is because he’s never slept with Rose, so he’s only ever seen her do scary.</p><p>“Anyway!” he declares, a little bit too loudly. “Why did you run me off back there?”</p><p>It’s Crocker’s turn to squirm, and the only reason that John can tell this is him squirming, is because Crocker is very quiet for a moment. And, well. He’s literally never quiet. He always has a smartass answer.</p><p>“Because you weren’t supposed to be there,” he answers. “Obviously. Come on Egbert, think for once.”</p><p>“There were plenty of other ways to get rid of me,” John says, and then- okay, maybe he shouldn’t have, because he swears he sees something on Crocker’s face crack open into surprise and horror, right before he stitches it back up again. That’s new. That’s- well. Maybe he should have. John holds his gaze.</p><p>“You know what your position is, and however precarious it may be, there weren’t any alternatives. Not yet,” Dirk adds, mechanically.</p><p>Maybe he just imagined it, earlier. Crocker’s as cold and remote as the moon. Or that asteroid, Bennu. No, not Bennu, that name’s too cute for him. Some other floating space rock, then.</p><p>John decides to switch strategies and ask a question that he probably has a real chance of getting an answer for.</p><p>“So, like. Why did you tell me to come here?”</p><p>“To see if you’d listen,” Crocker says, but it’s mocking enough that John knows he’s not really being serious. Probably. It is the kind of thing he’d do. “Seriously, bro. Why else do we meet up?”</p><p>“Oh. Oh!” Well, okay, maybe he should’ve put two and two together. It definitely couldn’t be something as ridiculous as Crocker wanting to make sure he’d made it out okay. “Haha, yeah, I guess that’s pretty fair.”</p><p>He watches Crocker stand up, slow and measured. The movement’s kind of weirdly stiff, but John figures he’s had a pretty long day. Parties really take it out of people, after all. Especially ones with some kind of nefarious business- and, jeez. He should probably ask about that, given that he saw several guests disappear and not reappear, but he also knows he’s not going to get anything out of him. It’s enough that they’ll have a heads-up on the disappearances.</p><p>“The lights,” Crocker says, abruptly. “I’m taking them off.”</p><p>“You’re…taking the lights off.” John frowns. “Why?”</p><p>Nothing greets him but silence, heavy with derision. Crocker is so fucking frustrating, and John still can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.</p><p>“Because I don’t fucking want to see your ugly face for longer than I have to,” he snaps. “What, don’t tell me you’re worried about stubbing your poor toes on the furniture.”</p><p>“Oh, get <em>over</em> yourself,” John pushes back. He sounds angrier than he means to, and he doesn’t like that, but how else is he going to react? That’s a level of vitriol that he’s not used to from Crocker, but he thinks- that’s good, right? Any emotion right now is good emotion, and if this is a weakness, if this is a crack in his façade, John can use that. And tonight, they’re all so much closer to the surface.</p><p>(He hates that he has to think about things this way, but it helps to know that Crocker would do the exact same thing to him, when it comes down to it, and leave him bleeding out on the floor. He hates that part of him is actually resentful about this, like Crocker giving him any kind of opening isn’t actually a blessing, or a miracle, enough that John might even shoot a thank you card to the dumb Mirthful Messiah, whoever it is. Pennywise, maybe? He doesn’t know.)</p><p>Crocker offers him a twist of his mouth, and that expression alone speaks volumes. It’s practically screaming.</p><p>Just like the way the lights flicker off and then there’s a hand on his chest shoving him roughly down to the bed. Fuck-</p><p>He didn’t even <em>see</em> him move, even to the light switch.</p><p>“What-?” Down John goes like a sack of spuds, and he really hopes Crocker’s night vision isn’t as good as it’s meant to be, because he <em>knows</em> that was far from a graceful landing.</p><p>But the insult, again, doesn’t come. No banter, no nothing, just the rustle of clothes and then a weight on him. Crocker’s straddling his thighs, he thinks, and then at the close of iron-gripped fingers around his wrists, pinning them down, he realizes Crocker’s leaning over him. John pushes outwards, tries to break his grip.</p><p>Not seriously, but it doesn’t budge so much as an inch. He thinks he can feel a tremor in Crocker’s hands for a second, but that’s not right. Those are the steadiest things he’s ever seen, no matter what he’s doing. And it certainly can’t be <em>substance</em> induced. The elder one might indulge in every single thing known to man (and some definitely not), but that’s not Dirk’s style. The most Dirk Crocker imbibes is alcohol, sometimes shared with John, sometimes not.</p><p>And this is just out of left field.</p><p>“What’s going on?” John asks. He’s met with nothing but silence for a moment, and the weight of Crocker’s attention on him.</p><p>“Don’t- no talking, tonight,” he finally says. His voice is low in warning. “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you.”</p><p>“Liar,” John says, because since when has he ever known what’s good for him? Sure, there’s something dangerous in the air, in Crocker’s tone, in every single way this is different from anything they’ve done before, but is that going to stop him? No. He’s going to push, he has to push. “You like my voice, and you like how loud I am, else you wouldn’t keep coming back for more.”</p><p><em>You’re the one who keeps coming back, like some kind of pathetic kicked barkbeast</em>, he imagines Crocker saying, because apparently he has to do <em>all</em> the work this time.</p><p>(Something is definitely wrong.)</p><p>“That wasn’t a suggestion, Mr. Egbert.” Again, that soft steel in his voice. Maybe this is why people like being blindfolded- no. Now is not the time to examine how on Earth this is actually doing it for him, because it’s not. “Keep quiet, else I’ll have to gag you.”</p><p>He’s definitely not going to be thinking about that in the future.</p><p>“What, and I don’t get to gag you next time?” John asks anyway, because he still knows how to push those buttons, even if he’s not getting any response. But if he hits enough of them, he will. He’s sure.</p><p>He really, really wishes he could see. There’s another long silence, and apparently those are going to be a theme for the evening. All those times when he’d wished Crocker would shut up, and now he’s doing it at the least convenient time.</p><p>“…Is there something wrong? We don’t have to- do anything. If there is,” John blurts out. He doesn’t mean to. He doesn’t care, he’s just- curious, and suffering from what Rose would probably call cognitive dissonance, or something. He just thinks it’s shock and dumb bitch disease, at this point.</p><p>“Mr. Egbert.” There’s something familiar, finally, the exasperation in Crocker’s tone. John latches onto it, stupidly relieved. “I know you’re incapable of following even the simplest of instructions, but I did just tell you not to talk.”</p><p>John exhales a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. Okay. Things are fine. They’re back to snarky responses, which is a good thing, and- wait. No. Is it? He’s supposed to be pushing an advantage, here, not trying to reset him back to clever asshole. He’s not worried. He’s not.</p><p>Still, he reaches up, hand sliding along Dirk’s front until he can tug him in for a kiss. He feels the guy’s fingers curl tight into the fabric of his shirt, and he doesn’t care. It’s not sweet, or soft, and there’s nothing even remotely reassuring about how Crocker’s teeth find his lower lip and bite just like he likes it, or about how he can feel Crocker’s mouth curve into a smile against his own afterwards.</p><p>This, he knows how to do, and even if the situation is different, this step’s looking like it’s going to be the same. And honestly, thank God. He’s not sure he could handle any more surprises this evening.</p><p>John can see a bit better in the dark now that his eyes have adjusted, and the scant city light that pours through the crack in the curtains is enough for him to make Dirk’s silhouette out by, even if he can’t see any details but the glow of his white shirt. He wonders what he looks like to Crocker now, splayed out like this. He wonders if it’s really vain of him to be doing that in the first place, and hoping that Crocker likes what he sees. It probably is- he already knows Dirk Crocker thinks he’s hot (and okay, there’s a certain kind of rush that comes with that), he doesn’t need, like, extra confirmation.</p><p>John does kind of want to see him better, though. He can probably make that happen.</p><p>He’s still careful about undoing the buttons of Crocker’s suit jacket, the red lining gleaming in the light. John slows the pace as he does this, his hands smoothing along the soft fabric of the vest underneath until he’s at Dirk’s shoulders, pushing the jacket off. He does the same thing with the vest itself, fingers feeling out the raised stitches of the pattern on it. It takes him a long time to realize it’s just the Company logo, and it makes him feel sick. The vest comes off soon after, and he’s rougher than he means to be, but again, Crocker lets him without a single word of protest.</p><p>Then it’s just his shirt left, and John can feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric. He has to go slower this time, so he doesn’t fumble embarrassingly with the stupid tiny buttons, and Crocker actually pitches in to help, shrugging the shirt off entirely and tossing it aside without the usual care he takes with his clothes. Well, to be fair, John really was not going to let him <em>off</em> his lap to go fold a dumb shirt.</p><p>The shadows fall oddly on the planes of his body, but John doesn’t really need to see to know where to touch anymore.</p><p>He feels Dirk stutter out a slow breath as John’s hands smooth along bare skin, down his chest until he can hook his fingers in the waistband of those slacks. He doesn’t even need to ask, before Dirk’s lifting his hips just enough to help get them off, along with his boxer-briefs, leaving him bare underneath.</p><p>There’s also something really, really hot about having Crocker naked on top of him while he’s pretty much fully clothed, and John’s putting a pin in that to inspect later, probably for next time.</p><p>Definitely for next time, because Crocker’s leaning down to steal another kiss, this one open-mouthed and hungrier, and who’s John to deny him that? No one, that’s who. Especially since he gets to move his hands over so he can cop a feel of that ass- which, some might call flat, but John thinks is just fine, thanks. It fits great in his hands, and Crocker makes the nicest fucking sound into his mouth when he squeezes. So he does it, again, and then again, guiding him to start grinding against him. Sure, John knows he shouldn’t be half-hard from just undressing the guy and kissing him, but he is, and that’s just fine, thanks.</p><p>He moves one hand to get it around his cock, giving a slow stroke. Just to start getting him worked up good and proper. Dirk doesn’t get louder, but his hips jolt up into John’s hand, which is just as good. Crocker’s hands are even a bit unsteady when he starts to undo the buttons of John’s shirt (it’s not like he was going to <em>stay</em> in that stuffy jacket and bowtie if he didn’t need to), and his mouth moves to find the exposed triangle of flesh at his collarbone, a hot tongue dipping into the hollow there.</p><p>John curses. Crocker admonishes him for that with a bite that just makes him curse louder, so, like, who’s the real winner here, right? Spoiler- it’s John, especially since Crocker is getting a lot more handsy than usual, fingers mapping out his chest until they find his nipples and give a tweak, and that’s just rude. John definitely doesn’t squeak or make any kind of embarrassing noise that gets a smirk out of the complete gremlin on top of him, currently grinding against his boner like it’s nothing.</p><p>“I- nh, fuck- will you quit that? I thought you wanted me to be quiet,” John points out, breathier than he’d like.</p><p>“Then learn some self-control?” Crocker suggests, snarky as always. John tries, and fails, to not be relieved by that. “Bro, I can’t help you if you’re giving in to every impulse.”</p><p>“I do <em>not</em> give into every impulse I have, first of a-aaall,” and that sentence is just a lost cause, when Crocker’s ass presses very firmly to his dick in a slow grind that sends a shiver all the way down his spine, threatens to pull a moan from his throat.</p><p>“Right,” Crocker says. Smug bastard. “And you’re still talking, too.” He has the gall to actually sound disappointed by that, which John knows full well he isn’t- at least, he hopes not.</p><p>“Well, how else am I supposed to tell you to move so I can get my pants off?” he grumbles. “Seriously, they’re presenting a real barrier right now, and whoever invented them was dumb as hell. Just putting that one out there.”</p><p>“Probably for the best, the fabric’s so cheap I’m going to get some kind of a rash somewhere uncomfortable if I keep going.”</p><p>“What! No, it’s not <em>cheap</em>, this is- nice. It’s nice!”</p><p>“I mean, sure, for a rental at midnight it’s fine.”</p><p>John’s going to lose it. It’s not a rental, he paid real, actual money to own this. Sure, from a random store that was just about to close, and maybe it’s not <em>the</em> best quality and there’s also a decent chance he got ripped off, but the point is that it’s not a rental and Crocker doesn’t need to know any of that.</p><p>“What is this, Cinderella? Neither of us lost any shoes,” John tells him, and just shoves him off. Not harshly, but Crocker still hisses out a breath as he lands on the bed. Drama queen. He doesn’t bother resisting the urge to roll his eyes or anything, even as he wriggles his pants off. There, that’s way better.</p><p>He turns his head to see Crocker just sitting there, totally composed, and petty enough to not move at all and get back to all the fun they were having. John can tell it’s all pettiness because his lips are quirked up the faintest amount.</p><p>(And John really likes getting that specific reaction out of him, among others; it’s not really a smile by any means, but it’s way better than the fake, plastered-on ones he wears, and so much more <em>him</em> than the awful smile he had earlier in the evening. John isn’t one to get the heebie-jeebies, but that one still turned his stomach.)</p><p>“Are you coming back, or?”</p><p>“Well, are you going to ask nicely, Mr. Egbert?” Crocker asks. He’s being coy. It’s unfair that he’s so good at it, for someone so ruthless. It’s really, really unfair.</p><p>One slim-fingered hand moves to cup John through his boxers, thumb pressing teasingly at where the head of his dick is straining the fabric. John arches into it with a shudder.</p><p>“I, mmh. Am I allowed to talk for that?” He’s pushing now, but he’s allowed to. Crocker’s grip tightens in answer, not teasing anymore and in fact now a real threat as he strokes John from tip to base, all through fabric. John decides that fabric is his mortal enemy and will always be. The plot of that one anime has never seemed so relatable.</p><p>“You’re allowed those two words, yes.” Another slow stroke. John can feel the fabric dampening just a little, clinging to his cock as it leaks a few beads of pre. This should probably be a lot more embarrassing than it actually is, huh. Maybe it will be, when he’s not super turned on.</p><p>“Uh, hm. How’s ‘fuck you’?” John asks, faux-cheerful.</p><p>Another squeeze, this one just shy of painful, and it tears a whine from his throat. Okay, so maybe he should stop being such a smartass.</p><p>Or, y’know. Maybe he shouldn’t.</p><p>“Okay, okay, I think. ‘You suck’ is what you’re looking to hear, right?” No squeeze this time, but his thumb is pressing hard against the head and it’s making it <em>very</em> hard to focus right about now.</p><p>“You think you’re funny, don’t you,” Crocker drawls out. “Of course, I do suck, as it happens, and I’d swallow too, but it seems that you won’t be experiencing that particular privilege today.”</p><p>John is now very much invested in experiencing that particular privilege. Yes, the guy practically has fangs, but, like. They’re sexy fangs, probably, and if Crocker was going to bite his dick off, he’d have done it by now.</p><p>“Actually, everyone else also thinks I’m funny, you just don’t have a sense of humor,” John points out.</p><p>Maybe that’s like, the best comeback on the planet, because Crocker does shift back to straddle him, and now there’s just one layer of fabric between them, and it’s a thin one at that, so John can feel it in nearly excruciating detail when his dick nestles in the cleft of his ass. Oh, man. This is new.</p><p>And, unfortunately, it’s nice. Crocker starts to move with slow, deliberate rocks of his hips, obviously more intent on making it hard for John (ha, he <em>is</em> hilarious, take that) than on getting himself off. John just wishes he could see what expression he’s making, if any, but it’s a small price to pay. And it doesn’t even matter, because John’s reaching up to pull him into another kiss, getting them pressed chest to chest again. Yeah, that is the <em>shit</em>. Crocker’s breath catches in his throat, and his hips pick up the pace, and they settle into a rhythm that’s just about perfect. Well, it might be better if his underwear wasn’t on, but he doesn’t mind that.</p><p>It’s actually kind of surprising that Crocker’s willing to drag this one out so long- not to say John has anything against grinding, given how fucking hot he thinks this is, but it’s not something they’ve done before if there’s been another alternative.</p><p>(He’s definitely not going to think about one of their first fumbled times together, just rutting against Crocker’s thigh until they both ruined his dumb fancy suit. That was, like. Teenager shit. Embarrassing.)</p><p>But they keep going, John’s hips pushing up and Dirk’s meeting him eagerly, breathing getting heavier and kisses getting messier, until Crocker finally pulls away. He has to clear his throat a couple of times before he speaks, and John’s pretty proud of that, especially when all that comes out is a quietly whispered ‘fuck’. Well, they haven’t gotten to that yet, but it’s pretty valid as a reaction.</p><p>“Okay,” Crocker finally says, when he’s decided he’s apparently composed enough to talk. He shifts to kneel up above John, and he murmurs something under his breath, and out pops- something, from his sylladex. Okay, then. To be fair, without any recognizable sex-toy shapes, there’s only one thing it can be. Well, two, since one of the options is tossed his way and lands on his chest. Rude. The other’s clearly still in Crocker’s hand, and he opens it up. John sees black matte give way to a fainter outline, and he realizes that the glove is literally off and he still can’t see it this time.</p><p>“Wait,” John says, when he hears lube getting uncapped, but then nothing’s going near <em>him</em>. That’s-</p><p>Is-</p><p>Crocker’s weight has lifted off his lap, but he’s still hovering there, and when John fumbles to reach for the outline of his arm, he allows it.</p><p>“For?”</p><p>“For- are you- I mean. I thought-,” John breaks off. Well. So much for not being able to handle any more surprises, because this is a really big one! His face feels too hot, and he’s just really off his game today, huh. He needs to get it together. “We haven’t done it that way before,” is what he finally settles on saying. God. That was way too hard. Why is his brain blue-screening now?</p><p>“We haven’t,” Crocker tells him, which. Wow, very helpful. “Sorry to disappoint if you missed my dick that bad, but I think this’ll be good in its own way.”</p><p>“Uh. Yes.” Is he sounding doubtful? John hopes he’s not. He doesn’t want to sound doubtful and make Crocker change his mind. Not like he’d push hard if he did, but like- ugh. Forget what he said about things being normal again, what the fuck is going on?</p><p>“You’re sounding a bit unsure there.” And Crocker actually does pause, because he somehow thinks John isn’t down for this ride. Oh, man. There’s not enough words to describe how down for it he is, he just didn’t think it’d be a thing that was on the table. In fact, it wasn’t even in the <em>house</em>, but here it is, as some kind of weird centerpiece he didn’t notice before.</p><p>“No. I want to,” John says, too quick. “I mean. Yeah. It’d be nice if we did that.”</p><p>It’s amazing, how Crocker can just inject smug skepticism into what should be a noncommittal hum.</p><p>“Just let me handle this. And the gag order is still very much in effect,” he adds. Like John’s been obeying it that much when his mouth is unoccupied. But this time, he’s going to put effort into it, so he just nods, and mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key. “Dork,” is all he gets for his trouble. It’s more sighed out than spoken, and John’s eyes are adjusted enough to see that Crocker’s hand is no longer visible, that the rise and fall of his chest is slow and controlled.</p><p>He wonders if he’s ever done this before, and selfishly, maybe kind of stupidly, John kind of hopes he’s the first. He probably isn’t, but. Ugh. He’s not going to be weird and think about this.</p><p>Instead, he just reaches out to touch him, because he can. John smooths his hands over Crocker’s thighs, feeling out the lean muscle there, taut with the effort of standing up. There’s a lot less give there than there is on John’s, which is weird, for a guy so strongly affiliated with a cake company. His thumbs smooth over the jut of his hipbones, and maybe he’s ignoring Crocker’s erection to also be a tease, because the guy just has it coming.</p><p>He wishes he could see what was going on back there, too- how many fingers is he on? One? Two? Probably not three, it’s too soon for that. Whatever. He really wishes he was the one doing that, but there’s only so much that Crocker’s going to allow, and even with <em>this</em>, apparently that holds true. Still, a guy can dream.</p><p>John leans up to start kissing along his shoulder, ignoring the condom as it falls somewhere to land properly on his lap. He makes sure to get his teeth in there too, and Crocker practically jolts at it, so John does it again, leaving a whole trail of marks across the sharp line of his clavicle until he finally hears a low groan. Hell yes, he’s earned that one. He worked hard for it.</p><p>Finally, he reaches down and gets a hand around Dirk’s cock. He’s not nice enough to offer any kind of real grip, but his hand sure is there, and Crocker sure is bucking into it, not quite frantic, but in the way that John can kind of tell he’s not sure if he wants to do that, or rock down against his fingers. It’s stupidly hot. It really is.</p><p>“I- mmh,” Crocker starts, breaks off, and John hadn’t realized he’d sound like that, such a mess already. God, he wants to see his face properly. “You’re making this more complicated than it needs to, Mr. Egbert.”</p><p>John’s cock, embarrassingly enough, twitches at the breathy way Crocker says his name. Great. Now he’s going to get a boner every time that happens, isn’t he? Stupid dick giving in to weird conditioning.</p><p>He keeps going, now. And hey, now he gets to use that quiet thing against Dirk, which makes it twice as good. <em>And</em> he’s sure Crocker can feel him smile against his skin.</p><p>It’s still a little while before Crocker finally relents, his breathing ragged. John can feel his chest heave with each breath, the twitch downwards of his hips as he- god, he’s practically riding his fingers, isn’t he? John’s just really intimately acquainted with Dirk Crocker’s reactions, and he’s adding a whole bunch of new ones to the list, like the way his breath hitches, his exhales just barely moans, the way his dick throbs and gets wetter and wetter, until John is <em>reasonably </em>sure he’s just found his prostate and is abusing that knowledge. In like, a sexy way. Would be sexier if John was the one doing it, but one thing at a time.</p><p>“Okay. Okay, quit that, god,” Crocker murmurs, his voice shaky and <em>perfect</em> that way. There’s a quiet wet noise that has to be his fingers sliding out. “Get the condom on, will you?”</p><p>“Yeah. Yes,” John agrees immediately, with a jerky nod. It takes him like ten seconds to actually find the condom and tear the packet open, and it feels like an eternity, so maybe he’s a little grateful that Crocker’s both in a weird mood and also recovering from having three (probably? Not to brag, but like. He’s pretty thick, and Crocker’s fingers are not) fingers up his ass.</p><p>A slick hand wraps around his dick immediately to get him lubed up once he’s all wrapped, the packet discarded for someone else to worry about later. Probably not future John <em>or</em> future Dirk, realistically.</p><p>“Lay back,” Crocker orders. A bare hand (still wet, kind of gross, actually) rests on his chest and gives a little push until he listens. Bossy as ever, huh.</p><p>John doesn’t say a single word as Crocker shifts himself over to line up, and even if he wanted to, he wasn’t going to be able to, as Crocker sinks down slowly, because all he registers is <em>tight</em> and <em>hot</em> and <em>holy shit I’m inside Dirk Crocker, what the fuck</em>, and even the option of coherence is flung right out the window.</p><p>Not just for him, either. Both their breathing is heavy, and while John’s probably garbled some of that out loud, Crocker’s actually moaned, and his nails are digging into John’s sides as he gets used to it. It hurts, but it’s a good hurt, the kind he likes to have after they meet up. It’ll be a reminder that this happened.</p><p>John lifts his hands, rests them on Crocker’s hips to steady him. It’s reflex, but the surprise comes where Crocker doesn’t stop him. Not even when he finally starts to move after the longest minute of John’s life. It’s just slow rocks of his hips, John’s not even moving that much <em>in</em> him, but he can feel every little shift, even through the condom, and it’s so, so good. If anyone had told him their weird hate-sex was going to end up like this, he’d have laughed them out of the room.</p><p>Now? No one’s laughing, least of all John. He’s barely in control of his mouth at this point, and Crocker can mock him for it later, but he doesn’t really care. As the guy starts to ride him in earnest- and that’s a hell of a surprise, because apparently all of that was just a warm-up, and now there’s actual fucking, and fuck, John’s really just not going to survive this one, is he?-, John starts to help out, lifting him up and down, and- Dirk Crocker bouncing on his dick is way hotter than it has any right to be. Dirk could probably kill him now and he’d be okay with it.</p><p>Well. Maybe not okay. He hasn’t come yet. And also he doesn’t want to die. But despite what his brain is doing, it’s so, <em>so</em> good.</p><p>John makes an effort to clamp his lips together, because Crocker’s more vocal like this than he’s ever been before- all breathy noises and bitten-off curses, and he sounds almost desperate. He keens when the angle has to be just right, and John holds him right there to make sure it stays that way as he cants his hips up, draws that noise out again and again, until it’s damn near a sob in his throat. There’s a steady warmth pooling low in his gut, and John ignores it in favor of drawing this out. He wants to kiss Crocker so badly, drink all those sounds down, feel how he falls apart, but that’s just not logistically possible right now. Next time. Another time.</p><p>John doesn’t even quite realize he’s mumbling breathy encouragement and praise until he feels Crocker shudder, clench tighter around him. Dirk moves faster, and John lets him take the reins back, even if his rhythm is more frantic than anything else. He sounds <em>desperate</em>, and John is fucking loving it.</p><p>(He’s not begging, not yet, and John doesn’t think that’s going to happen today, but- maybe something else for next time, because John’s gotten him to do it once before, just with his mouth on Crocker’s dick, and that would probably the hottest thing they’ve done if this hadn’t come along to blow it (ha!) right out of the water.)</p><p>And then Crocker moans out John’s name, loud and clear, and that’s just it. John comes hard, falling over an edge he didn’t even notice he was standing over, his hips snapping up and his toes curling in pleasure as it just slams right into him like a freight train and he spills into the condom.</p><p>Crocker shudders on top of him, and god, he just keeps going, his hips moving urgently and working John through it and past it, to the point where John’s shaky from overstimulation and he feels like his body’s going to burst.</p><p>It’s an effort to try and steady him with one hand while the other just pumps his cock, and it’s so slick from pre, John can just imagine what it looks like, red and wet and desperate like the rest of him. One, two, three times, and Crocker’s coming all over his chest, John moving his hand to milk every last drop out of him until he’s a shuddering mess just like John was not even five minutes ago.</p><p>Crocker has to swat John’s hand away, and his legs nearly collapse under him when he tries to move. This isn’t something they do, necessarily, but. John helps. He reaches over, lifts him off, and winces a bit when he slides out into the cold, unforgiving air of the room. Also, he’s still got the messy condom on, and that’s kind of gross. John makes himself sit up just for long enough to remove it, tie it off, and fling it into the bin, hopefully, before he flops back onto the bed.</p><p>Crocker is laying next to him. Close enough to touch. John doesn’t reach over. He also doesn’t say anything about it, because he’s not dumb.</p><p>They lay there, side by side, and catch their breath in the silence that stretches on. Somewhere to his left, the digital display of the clock is changing numbers in an angry red. Somewhere outside, the night-dwellers have settled in to sleep, and the early risers are just now stirring, and in the faint east, the sun’s probably peaking over the horizon, just barely.</p><p>It’s the longest either of them have lingered.</p><p>He should probably move, clean up before the mess all over him congeals into something really gross. It’s actually already really gross. Crocker’s probably going to want a shower. Or a hot bath. Or- something. John should probably offer to run the tub, remind him that taking one is a thing he could do.</p><p>John remains right where he is instead. They’re on the edge of- something, he’s sure. He just doesn’t know what. Things have been so different tonight, it can’t have been anything but a tipping point, and as good as he’s become at reading Crocker, the guy is still inscrutable about a whole lot. John doesn’t understand him at all, and some distant part of him aches to realize that.</p><p>“Alright,” Crocker finally says, so quiet that John thinks he’s imagining it for a second. It’s just a breath in the silence, tentative. He’s certainly never heard President Crocker sound like that. He’s never heard any Crocker sound like that. Soft, but not deadly. Very nearly defeated. John didn’t even think he’d known the meaning of the word.</p><p>“Alright, what?” John asks, his brain still muddled with orgasm. The other man is a darker silhouette against the darkness, and John can still feel the whisper of his bare hands against his skin rather than cloth.</p><p>“I’ll come with you.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>tl;dr- they fuck, Dirk decides to go.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Interlude I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The calm before the storm.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So! The first act of the story is done. Thoughts, comments, concerns? This chapter is different from the others, a lot shorter, a bit of lore, a bit of a recap, definitely a lot of...I was really self-indulgent and love a certain someone so much I had to put them in, as you'll see. Hope y'all like it!</p><p>Trigger warnings: Mild body horror.</p><p>As a note- Next Sunday, I will be taking a break from updates for this, thanks to the holidays. They'll resume on Jan 3 as normal. Enjoy the end of 2020, everyone, and see you next year :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Deep under the Crocker mansion, in a place gouged out of solid rock and earth, down under all the labs and experiments, all the testing facilities and storage rooms of inactivated Drones, at the very lowest level that only one person is meant to be able to access, is a room.</p><p>It was built into the mansion, built before the mansion was anything more than a two-story home in the suburbs of Seattle, and the Batterwitch was only a queen with the barest shred of a plan to assert herself over this strange new world she’d landed on. The earth is scarred beyond belief, here. It carries the grief of expansion and death and cruelty. Deeper, deeper, the footsteps of scientists and torturers alike fade away, like ants in a maze. Deeper yet, and the blood is dripping down to a trickle, adding to an aquifer the likes of which none have seen before.</p><p>And at the heart of it, that room.</p><p>Dirk Crocker sits cross-legged on the floor, bathed in sickly pale light. A young girl sat there once, on the night he was born, though he doesn’t know it. She had sat there many times before, knees brought up to her chest, a red diadem gracing her brow and occluding her thoughts.</p><p>It had been devoid of human life for a long time, after that. Years. The room did not miss it. But Dirk found it one day, when he needed somewhere <strike>to hide </strike>quiet to rest. Its past remains a mystery, for the most part; its present is unchanging. He comes here still, sits in the same spot as she did, though he has grown older than the room ever saw his predecessor, though they were both weapons in their own right.</p><p>The room cannot tell the difference between them; one human is the same as another in that neither belonged within these walls. No, it was built for one purpose, and one purpose only.</p><p>The tank is where it has always been, as long as Dirk can remember. And past it, for it has been here since the beginning, since a ship fell from the sky and dashed itself to ruins in a fit of rage. Since an Empress became queen of nothing and only one and had to hide and debase herself to survive. It is an indignity, a reminder. It is all that is left of her queendom, such that it was, thick glass with slime tinted putrid green, the color of rot.</p><p>But that is not the worst of it. The tank is not empty; it teems with half-life instead.</p><p>The troll in the tank looks a corpse, barely humanoid, with grey skin stretched as thin as old paper of protruding bones, ports carved into the spine and abdomen and arms, limbs wasted away to near nothing. Under the skin, there is movement, unconscious and unpredictable and hungry. Only the writhing of biowires and the readout for the bloodpusher monitor tells that it’s alive. That <em>he</em> is alive. Only She is meant to read it, but that has not dissuaded Dirk. Nor has it dissuaded his predecessor, who found the shifting wires under sallow skin mesmerizing. She had thrown up the first time she saw it, she had scrubbed her sick from the tiles so as not to leave a trace afterwards. Dirk had a stronger constitution. He focused on the eyes, the blue-red-blue flash of them, so similar to Hers, but soothing. Hypnotic in a way that he knew couldn’t be wielded as a weapon.</p><p>He doesn’t know that at times, when he leaves, the flash dims to nothing but a flicker, the gaze vacant. The girl had never seen it.</p><p>The tank’s occupant remembers the girl, just as it remembers the boy that Dirk once was. They don’t say anything. Energy must be conserved for more important things, and thoughts are slow and sluggish, hard to come by. Lucidity is a dream of the past.</p><p>(The strange, pink beings, though. Purple-eyed and orange-eyed, terrified and terrifying in turn, with Her mark on them as clear as if it had been branded, their Doom, their Fate inescapable. Maybe. The word Escape no longer holds any meaning, only a strange pull in the body’s chest. They do not spend very much time considering the body, it is nothing but meat now. They watch the rise and fall of its chest, they look at the readout for the pumpbeat, and they feel utterly disconnected from the pathetic worn-out husk in the tank. It is not them. It cannot be them.)</p><p>An emaciated chest rises and falls in mimicry of breath. Red and blue eyes, barely open, stare unseeing. Dirk still feels watched, but it doesn’t raise the hairs on the back of his neck, doesn’t make him feel like his skin is too small. The red light of a camera blinks up in the far corner of the room, tucked up against the ceiling, and he gives a slight nod.</p><p>He lifts one palm against the glass, and it’s warm to touch, a few degrees hotter than the human body. This is the only troll he has ever seen that is not Mother. The horns are doubled, the sharp canines doubled. There are scars manifold, a story he does not know and likely never will. His finger taps against it, soft but not idly.</p><p>He’s leaving.</p><p>The camera light blinks.</p><p>(Leaving. <em>To go out or away from, to depart from permanently, to let remain or have remaining behind after going.</em> This means nothing. It means everything. There is a girl, and she is speaking in a clear determined voice, and she is telling him that she is going. She wishes that she could take him, or take anyone other than the child. She wants to so very badly, but it is dangerous enough as is, and she can’t even bring her brothers, let alone him. He does not understand who everyone is, although he knows everything about them. If it were thousands of years ago he would help her. If it were hundreds of years ago he would go with her. Now, it is barely enough that he recognizes her, yet it is all he can do. He can barely hate himself for not being able to do more. He would have, decades ago.)</p><p>There’s a lot of work to be done before he does, and no one can know, but. He’s decided. He needs to be careful, he needs to make sure his planning is completely fucking perfect and that Dave isn’t anywhere nearby when he does, because his brother is the one variable he can’t plan for. His fingers spell this out against glass. There is no response from the troll in the tank. Dirk had never expected one.</p><p>
  <strike>He needs to make sure this isn’t a trap, that he’s not walking blindly into an execution, into some kind of torture chamber, but there’s no real way to know. His only evidence against it is that John wouldn’t do that, and that’s a thought born of emotion rather than logic, and he knows that. He does.</strike>
</p><p>He can’t convince himself that it would be better (safer) to stay, though. Not this time. This, he says too.</p><p>The camera light blinks again, the limbs in the tank shift slightly, jerked around by the wires and drifting a little in the faint current of the liquid they’re suspended in.</p><p>(It is the most that the body can move, a puppet barely controlled. It is happening again, they know. There is no apology. That is fine. They know that this one is not of the same material as the girl; this one is brittle, this one is unbreakable. He knows-)</p><p>Yeah.</p><p>“I’m going,” he says out loud, because he knows that the troll in the tank isn’t going to let anyone else hear this. Because he needs to say it out loud to be true.</p><p>(“I’m going,” the girl says, and her voice is clear even if her mouth trembles in weakness and her eyes shine wetly. Her chin is tipped up. Defiance is not a word he knows, so he does not know how to describe her tone. Determination, maybe. Anger. He’s well-acquainted with those.)</p><p>Dirk stands up, lets out a slow breath. An echo hangs in the dusty room.</p><p>The camera blinks once, then again.</p><p>“I’m sorry.” He speaks again, quieter this time. But no less sincere. There is nothing to rationalize. He doesn’t even know who he’s saying it to. Mother? Himself? This troll who’s never spoken to him?</p><p>(Perhaps he was wrong. He finds that the apology makes something strange happen in the body’s throat. Its eyes burn.)</p><p>(The girl does not apologize with her last words to him; she knows she has no choice but to go. She knows she cannot take him, however used to being taken he might be. He does not miss the apology. He has not heard one in a long, long time. Part of him still keeps count of the sweeps, but that part is small and curled in on itself. It is tired, too, but all of him is tired.)</p><p>(This apology is new. It makes that part of him stir, its head peering out from defeat and despair. It sees the Doom.)</p><p>The whirring of the machinery stops, just for a moment.</p><p>(He knows this one, after all, better than the rest. This is the one that has spoken to him though he doesn’t know it. This is the one, who watched and listened and found his way here. He knows this one in orange text (lowblood, the color screams, even as his manners speak highblood; human, his appearance screams, even as his ruthlessness speaks Alternian) and lines of code in a language he learns very quickly. He knows this one in the Drones, in the system security, in the text and binary that patch and prop up systems that he’s running for reasons he doesn’t know and no longer cares to. Only that he will not be here.)</p><p>(An apology isn’t enough.)</p><p>(<strike>He’s being left, lost, abandoned again, no one can take him, he must outlive them all and stay here under her thumb, nothing but a puppet and a reminder and a pile of flesh and circuits that should have died long, long ago, that has outlived its usefulness, all things considered, is this what he’s been reduced to, is this the future that Kankri had seen?)</strike></p><p>(This is the only future he has ever seen, and it is all he knows. He doesn’t even remember his own name, the names and faces of those who were important to him, once. He knows the girl. The boy. He knows Her.)</p><p>(He doesn’t know what it’s like to be truly alone. He thinks he’d like it, if alone no longer meant alone <em>with Her</em>.)</p><p>The camera blinks, the troll’s expression shifts, and Dirk knows- he <em>knows</em> that this is proof that they’ve been listening the whole time. That doesn’t necessarily make this easier.</p><p>He can’t make any promises, though; he won’t give false hope where there is none. Frankly, it will be a miracle if Dirk himself makes it out, he can’t promise to come back for anyone, or anything. Not that he knows who he’d come back for.</p><p>The troll in the tank is a stranger, for all that Dirk is familiar with them. Professionally only; their file isn’t something he could ever access. He suspects it’s not something he’s allowed to, and that not even the troll really remembers who they used to be.</p><p>But if he made it. If he could come back.</p><p>Maybe.</p><p>He doesn’t voice any of this, though, and his fingers curl into a fist against the glass.</p><p>There’s a hum like static in the room, and those blue-red-blank eyes <em>glow</em> for a second, he swears. Dirk meets the gaze evenly for a single moment.</p><p>(The body is agitated, flesh reacting and acting more than it should, and he braces himself for the tear of pain that comes with using the body’s psionics these days, curling in behind code and the whir of machines to avoid it. It works, for the most part. That’s all that he can ask for. Maybe, the human’s mouth says. Maybe what.)</p><p>(He doesn’t know that word, not really. Computers don’t do <em>maybe</em>. He exists in binary, ones and zeroes, if/else/elif, alternative branching options, plans always mapped out in advance. This particular human did always understand code surprisingly well. He’d once wondered, when he had the spare thoughts to do so, if it was designed as a replacement. It’s been designated as a lowblood, after all. Better than the mutantblood brother, but not as good as the seadweller lavender girl who’d long since lost, or the prized Heiress to be. Never as good as them, but oh, has he not watched this human try? Has he not watched this human excel, in ways that would have made him sick, so long ago, when he was still himself?)</p><p>(He had worried. But orange, bronze- it close to his yellow. It’s not the right color. But maybe she did not perfect it- she bred a mutant, after all. Designs have their flaws.)</p><p>(But there are no psionic powers to be seen, no real technopathic ability, nothing manifested other than a skill with electronics born of nothing but talent and hard work, connections forged but not mastered in the Alternian way. Whatever small part of him was left then, it was grateful. He wouldn’t have liked to see this one in the wires.)</p><p>(He didn’t want to be in the wires, either. Maybe he didn’t have to be- there’s other fates, other Dooms out there. Maybe- no. He doesn’t know that word. Possibility isn’t something he knows, only probabilities, assigned and shifting and always quantified.)</p><p>(<strike>He had fought so hard to avoid it, and yet here he is and all those he fought with are dead and he doesn’t even know his own name. If they were to call him, he could not go.)</strike></p><p>(But a part of him does, just as it knows the feeling that kindles because of it.)</p><p>The body doesn’t react in the tank. The camera light blinks off once, a farewell.</p><p>Dirk Crocker leaves the room, and it sits empty as a tomb, as it did until he arrived, in the unforgiving soil deep beneath a false home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Act II!</p><p>Trigger warnings here for: Blood/injury mention, withdrawal symptoms, uh. Imprisonment, technically. Also implications as to the body modifications.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“That’s- there’s blood on you. You’re bleeding,” John says dumbly, and Dirk regards him with an impassive look.</p><p>That much is manifestly obvious, and while he's bleeding, he'd really like for them to be a safer distance away before he does anything about it beyond pressing his handkerchief to the gaping wound on the nape of his neck. He's sure it looks worse than it actually is. All that's for is to make sure no blood's falling where he doesn't want it to be, but even if it does. It's going to rain later tonight; the sky is thick and ominous with it, and it'll wash away the traces he doesn't mean to leave.  </p><p>Dirk's careful, and he's a perfectionist, but in this- he'll take all the help he can get, even if he fucking hates the rain.</p><p>“Of course I am. I had to make it look convincing, didn’t I? Don’t worry, I’m hardly in danger of passing out,” he says, dismissive. “I heal quickly, and I left a few false trails. Now which way are we going? Despite the precautions I’ve already taken, I’d rather not linger.”</p><p>He keeps himself calm, even as his heart's pounding in his chest. The only things he's taken are his sword and his shades- an old, plastic pair, before he'd upgraded and built his own. They're slightly too small for him now, but there's nothing in them other than nostalgia.</p><p>
  <strike>They were the first gift that Dave had given him, maybe the only sincere ones, the only one that had been <em>meant</em> to help.</strike>
</p><p>The electronic set's currently off on one of the trails. It'll buy him time. God, it had better buy him time, because Egbert seems content to stand here in an abandoned bus depot, next to a shoddy old truck, for the next ten years if Dirk doesn't prompt him along. He doesn't bother letting his irritation show; the other man has to know how important it is to make this quick.</p><p>“Right. Right.” John visibly shakes off all the questions, his expression shifting into something more solemn. Dirk appreciates that, on a purely professional level; joking and banter is one thing, but it’s always good to see someone so capable getting serious. The interesting part is that it isn’t directed at him as it was before- Dirk isn’t an obstacle to push through at all costs, but the objective. “I, uh. I have to tie you up. And- you’re not going to get rid of the shades, I know, I know, so I’m going to need to. Fry them. A bit.”</p><p>“What.”</p><p>“It’s for safety- this could all be a big trap, you know,” John says, like he isn’t the one who’s extended a hand and is pulling Dirk out of the metaphorical frying pan and into the quite possibly literal fire.</p><p>“A trap, for you. As if you wouldn’t take me to a secondary or even tertiary safehouse first to ensure I was free of tracking devices. Which, by the way, I am. False trails, remember? It’s like you’ve never done this before- and, well, perhaps <em>you</em> personally haven’t, but I know you all have a protocol for your ‘liberations’.” He doesn't know what it is, sure, but they've got to.</p><p>Not that Dirk believes there’s any point to those; the workers almost always come back, and those who have any information never do. It’s fairly obvious why, although he refrains from going further with this particular conversation. Perhaps when he isn’t bleeding, and when they don’t need to get as far away as possible. Even then, it’s unlikely to be enough, but that he’ll keep to himself, too. It doesn’t matter when he’ll die either way, does it? At least they might make it cleaner.</p><p>“In any event, you can do what you want to these shades, they're just plastic,” he continues on smoothly, tamping down on the flicker of satisfaction when he cuts Egbert off just as the other man was about to open his mouth. It’s always a matter of timing to do it properly- it isn’t interrupting if they’ve not spoken yet, after all. “We need to get going, do we not? Time is of the essence, Mr. Egbert.”</p><p>“I- yeah. It is,” Egbert says, obviously shaking the matter off entirely. Faster than Dirk had expected him to, as well. Egbert’s curiosity can be incorrigible at times, and Dirk knows that he’s in no mood to be answering questions. Not given what he’s done.</p><p>There’s no going back now. He’s made sure of it. He suddenly feels very, very sick, just thinking about it, but Dirk tamps down on that hard, grinds it out beneath his heel. Crockers don’t show weakness, and Dirk can’t crumble now. Not in front of the enemy-</p><p>Well. Egbert may not be the enemy anymore, per se, but Dirk’s very much aware that he’s deliberately placed his foot in a bear trap, and the sudden rush of vertigo is one he doesn’t know how to deal with. He'll handle it later.</p><p>Future Dirk is going to have his hands full, with the mess that Current Dirk is leaving him.</p><p>“Hey,” Egbert says. Stupidly earnest, like he can tell this is all catching up to Dirk much sooner than he’d meant it to. And stupidly daring, with how he reaches out to clasp a hand onto Dirk’s shoulder. Reflexively, he flinches away from the gesture. Dave does that- used to do that, he won’t be doing it anymore- and it’s hardly a gesture of brotherly camaraderie. It’s not <em>anything</em>.</p><p>And John Egbert is not his brother, that’s manifestly clear.</p><p>“Hey,” Egbert repeats. He squeezes, and Dirk closes his eyes tight behind his shades. They need to go, he can deal with his pathetic reactions later. “You’re free. You did the hardest part already. Feels great, right?”</p><p>Dirk bites back a retort asking if John uses that spiel on all the traitors and defectors they take in. He does, and Dirk knows he’s no better than that lot. The thought sits heavy like a fucking rock and twice as cold and jagged in his chest.</p><p>“It feels like we’re wasting time,” he says instead. “I told you, Mr. Egbert. I don’t know that my countermeasures are going to hold up that well to scrutiny, especially not Mother’s, and so I would rather be out of here before she notices anything.”</p><p>“Crocker, you <em>told</em> me you chose tonight because she was busy, and because your brother was in the Carnival.” There’s a note of warning in his voice. How fucking absurd, that John Egbert is the one that’s worried Dirk’s led <em>him</em> into a trap. There’s an irony to be found there somewhere, but Dirk simply isn’t in the humor to look for it just yet.</p><p>“Yes, but-,” he cuts himself off, presses his lips tight together. He doesn’t know how to say that she knows, she’s always known when he’s done something wrong or made a mistake, and while Dave was in charge of punishing him when he was younger, now that he’s older- well. Suffice it to say that Mother has always ensured that the same mistakes were never made twice, and that Dirk learned his lesson.</p><p>This particular mistake, he’s not sure he’d even get the chance to make twice.</p><p>“Never mind,” he finally says. “Where are we going?”</p><p>Silence answers him, and Egbert looks singularly, damningly guilty. Of course. Of course- Dirk shouldn’t have trusted him, trusted this, he should go- somewhere, now, he can’t go back, he’s never going back, but-</p><p>“I can’t tell you,” Egbert says. He even sounds apologetic. Maybe he should've been nominated for an Oscar.</p><p>“You can’t tell me where we’re going,” Dirk says, flatly. “Even if you’re bringing me there yourself.”</p><p>“Technically we’re going to like, three different places? If that helps.” It really doesn’t. His brain provides a plethora of detail about primary, secondary, and tertiary locations, and what goes on in each of them. None of those details are pleasant. He makes sure that none of that shows on his face.</p><p>“It doesn’t,” he says instead. “It also doesn’t make sense, given that I’m going to physically be there, and I can likely figure out where they are to begin with based on any number of environmental cues.”</p><p>Egbert’s guilty expression ramps up.</p><p>Oh, no.</p><p>He’s not going to like this.</p><p>“Uh. About that.”</p><p>“If you were going to kill me, you ought to have done it sooner,” Dirk finally snaps. “Or would it have been too big a statement for you to make, leaving my corpse in the Oval Office?”</p><p>“What? No, that’s not-, oh, jeez, I’m really fucking this up,” Egbert says, miserably. Overselling it some, if anyone were to ask Dirk. But whatever. He scrubs a hand over his face, through his hair. “I’m not going to kill you! Why would I do that? Like, I really <em>would</em> have done it before if I wanted to. I just, uh. Fuck, you’re really not going to like this.”</p><p>“Mr. Egbert, I can assure you that there’s very little of this evening that I’m actually enjoying. Get on with it.” He’s still on edge, he doesn’t <em>want</em> to believe that he was this stupid, but- no one wants to admit they’ve made such a catastrophic mistake, after all. Dirk keeps his hands behind his back, where Egbert can’t see how they’re curled into fists.</p><p>“I’m- going to need to blindfold you. And, like. Kind of restrain you. Like I said before."</p><p>“No,” Dirk bites out, reflexive. It’s too fast, too sharp. He takes a more controlled breath. That isn’t the way he can go about this. “What I mean is- why? I understand caution, but I’m pretty fuckin’ sure the hardest part of this venture has already been accomplished, by yours truly, while <em>someone</em> just sat on their ass.”</p><p>That might be unfair, given that Egbert no doubt had to do some planning on his end to make this possible, but Dirk’s hardly been plucked out of the heart of the Empire, or stolen out from the White House. He’s come here of his own volition, bypassed all the security that no one else would’ve been able to. The cake’s made and decorated, all Egbert needs to do is transport it from Point A to Point B, he can’t claim to be a baker in this context.</p><p>“I wasn’t <em>sitting on my ass</em>, thanks,” Egbert huffs out. “And this is like, the basic precaution.”</p><p>“You sure? Your ass seems like all you do is sit on it,” Dirk says. He doesn’t mutter- that would be bad manners, and besides, he doesn’t particularly care what Egbert thinks of him. But- maybe he should. Maybe he needs to watch his mouth, now that the dynamics have shifted so much, because Egbert is going to be the one to determine his fate, when it comes down to it. And just because <em>Dirk</em> thought they were something- doesn't mean anything, not with how willing he is to press the advantage now. Dirk wouldn't have it any other way, of course, but it's a dangerous thing to assume that he has any leverage here, over John.</p><p>Dirk suddenly feels like the floor is tilting under him and he’s sliding backwards, down towards some precipice. Which is absurd, and he recognizes that. He’s already jumped. All that’s left is the sickening crunch of the landing.</p><p>“That doesn’t even make sense? If my ass is fat, that’s not a bad thing.” Egbert crosses his arms over his chest, and Dirk meets his gaze impassively. “God! Okay, fine. Listen. I know you’re not going to like it, but we still kind of have to make sure, okay?”</p><p>“You <em>did</em> make the arrangements on your end, right? Because if you’re expecting me to pretend that you actually succeeded in kidnapping me, I’m afraid that’s just not going to happen.”</p><p>“Why, because you’re so bad at lying?”</p><p>“No, I’m an excellent liar, but the issue is that lies need to have a grain of truth in them. Or at least have some kind of a believable foundation. Absolutely no one is going to buy that you just spirited me away in the dead of night, no matter how much you bat those baby blues at them. Not even I could convince them, and trust me, I’m an excellent salesman.” This time, he manages an even delivery. He’s aching all over, and although the wound where the tracker had been is scabbing over, flesh knitted together by the biotech that's in his blood, it still aches. Dirk is fairly fucking sure that he was never meant to take it out; he’s just lucky that he was able to deactivate the nastier defense mechanisms it had before he did.</p><p>Perks of being a technical genius, paltry as they might be at this point.</p><p>“It’s not that, okay? It’s- ugh. No one’s going to believe it if you just walk in with me, either. And besides, you’re crawling with gross Crockerware, I bet. We need to get that out first, I can’t just let you near anything or anyone important with all that in you.” Egbert purses his lips, clearly ready for another showdown.</p><p>Dirk just cocks an eyebrow his way, waits a beat for it to be just that side of insolent.</p><p>“Why, Mr. Egbert. Did you just make a valid point? I must have rubbed off on you more than either of us could’ve imagined,” he drawls out instead. It’s a concession, yes, because he knows it’s one he has to make. But he isn’t going to make it easy.</p><p>“I made those plenty of times before we even met, thanks,” Egbert says. “Are you, like-,”</p><p>“Don’t,” Dirk warns him. He can already hear the words ‘are you okay with it’, and that is just not a question that either of them wants to hear an honest answer to right now. In fact, if Egbert was smart, he wouldn’t even want Dirk thinking about it.</p><p>There’s something to be said about a slow burn, a long game, a sweet poison that kills slowly, but Dirk isn’t in the mood for that kind of poetry. Instead, he can feel the trap start to snap shut, and he’s deliberately keeping his leg in there.</p><p>It’s not entirely dissimilar to the mental arithmetic he runs through with every strife with Dave, or even at work. Costs versus benefits, and while the margin is slimming, it isn’t close yet. He just thought-</p><p>Well. It didn’t matter what he’d thought, did it. This is what it is, and he’s going to have to deal with that as he always does.</p><p>“How long will it take?” Dirk asks instead. He can keep it together, of course, but with an endpoint in sight, it becomes much more bearable.</p><p>“Like. A while. Uh, most of the night and probably some into the morning, but. We’re going to be making a few stops along the way, like I said, so. You’ll…kind of have a break?” Again this reeks of pity, and it makes Dirk’s stomach turn. For one, that’s not what they are- it’s never been like that between them. For two, well. Pity is not a useful emotion, and while a part of him notes that it’s there, potentially to be exploited later, the rest knows he’ll have to just endure it.</p><p>That’s fine. Dirk was made to endure.</p><p>“I’ve been in restraints for longer,” is what he says instead. “Let’s see how terrible you are at fastening cuffs or the catches of a straitjacket.”</p><p>“Um. I was just going to use rope,” John blinks, obviously forming his own conclusions. Dirk has to nip that in the bud.</p><p>“I see you’ve just decided to jump into the deep ends. Knots are significantly more complicated than buckles or locks,” Dirk says dispassionately. “They’re not even going to look good, are they?”</p><p>“Sorry, what knots look good?”</p><p>“Oh, Mr. Egbert. Sometimes I forget how delightfully vanilla you are,” Dirk tells him, and lets the smug amusement provide some form of familiarity. It doesn't feel the same, of course. It feels hollow and empty.</p><p>“What? No, wait, hold on. I am not vanilla,” John, predictably, protests immediately. “We’ve done stuff! We’ve done <em>so</em> much not-vanilla stuff.”</p><p>“And yet, none of that ever involved pretty knots.”</p><p>“And who, exactly, were you doing the pretty knots with?” Egbert asks, and he’s squinting over at Dirk with a whole lot of suspicion.</p><p>“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Dirk says evenly, and offers absolutely no more details just to see Egbert’s cheeks flush a duskier pink as he struggles to figure it out. Or figure out whether or not Dirk is lying. He doesn’t say which, though. Disappointing.</p><p>“Well. Fine, maybe it’s knot,” Egbert tells him. “You’re just going to have to deal with it.”</p><p>“I want you to know that I heard the joke, but also that I’m ignoring it completely.”</p><p>“You’re absolutely no fun, you know that? Like, would it kill you to have fun, or laugh, just once?”</p><p>“I think that might be a condition for the self-destruct switch to activate, actually,” Dirk deadpans. “Smiling is fine, but a laugh? No, I’ve <em>never</em> had to laugh at an unfunny joke before, of course not.”</p><p>“…I get the feeling you’re being sarcastic. I wasn’t going to gag you or anything, but now I kind of feel like I should!” Egbert says. Light, teasing. Dirk struggles to keep his answer in the same vein.</p><p>“I’d like to see you try. You’ll lose a finger.” Well, that’s close enough, right? He clears his throat. “Anyway. How do you want me, Mr. Egbert?”</p><p>And if Dirk pitches his voice a little lower, offers a smirk that he knows gets right under Egbert’s skin? That’s just fine. Things are spiralling now, but he needs to know that he still has his claws in there, and it’s a sick, twisted thing, that John fucking Egbert is now the only constant he has. Dirk’s life is literally in his hands, and it is fucking terrifying.</p><p>“Just. Wrists for now. Ankles when we get to the car,” Egbert answers.</p><p>Wrists and ankles. Vanilla shit indeed.</p><p>He wonders if Egbert knows what he’s asking. He wonders if Egbert knows that Dirk would never let anyone do this willingly, that even now his permission is fuelled by desperation and the knowledge that there’s a clock ticking backwards, and it has Mother’s name on it.</p><p>He sticks his hands out.</p><p>“Let’s make this shit <em>hapen</em>.”</p><p>And they do. Dirk watches until he can’t, until Egbert apologetically reaches for his shades and Dirk gives him a haughty look and takes them off himself instead. He keeps his eyes closed, resisting the urge to open the and see what Egbert’s doing. The feeling of fabric covering the upper part of his face makes him want to vomit. He does not vomit. He is better than that. It’s soft, at least. Not coarse. When he opens his eyes, he can even make out faint outlines through it; he suspects it wasn’t originally intended as a blindfold, but he’ll take whatever shitty scrap of fabric this is over the ones Mother favors, the ones that don’t let any light in at all and mold tight to his skin, so he can’t tell at all if his eyes are closed or open, or even remember what the light looks like.</p><p>He lets out a shaky breath, and tries not to tense up too obviously as Egbert grabs his arm to escort him- somewhere. Downstairs, probably, he saw the service stair entrance propped open when he got here; he doubts John would risk taking him outside any more than he had to. The depot likely has a garage accessible from inside that they’ll leave from. Some kind of nondescript car, maybe. </p><p>Or it’s a torture chamber and this is how he dies, but that one seems unlikely. Egbert is too soft for that. Dirk tries to relax in the car ride, he really does. He fails entirely. Egbert tries to make small-talk, likely because he’s just incapable of letting awkward silence lie with Dirk. Some part of him will appreciate this in the future. He drops stupid comments that under any circumstances would have sparked and argument and more, things that Dirk always responds to, and Dirk- doesn’t.</p><p>As much as he wants to cling to that normalcy, Dirk has never been that good at deluding himself. He can only willingly buy into a lie for so long, and this is a dangerous one to continue to believe. It doesn’t matter, of course. He can’t dwell on it. He just has to get through this.</p><p>The night is excruciatingly long and uncomfortable, worse than Dirk might’ve originally imagined it. He almost wishes Egbert had just dosed the fuck out of him, but he doubts they have anything on hand that would really knock him out properly. And coming to in the midst of this would have been far from ideal.</p><p>He can’t see, he can barely move, he’s trusting Egbert more than he has anyone ever before, to lead him to some nebulous place where there’s no doubt something unpleasant waiting, each one worse than the last. Every stop strips something off of him, nothing that he can even fight, because he fucking <em>knows</em> how precarious his position is right now, and he has to control himself, has to know more variables before he acts on anything. There’s still going to be a way to spin this to his advantage, he just needs to bide his time and find it.</p><p>He hurts, all over. He's never been this vulnerable before, not in front of anyone that he wasn't related to. </p><p>He fucking hates it.</p><p>But he's Dirk Crocker, and if there's anything he knows how to do, it's endure.</p><p>So Dirk reminds himself to breathe, and that he’s had worse than whatever might be coming his way, and pretends that does something to ease the knot that’s formed right in his chest and screams that he’s done the wrong thing.</p><p>
  <strike>He’s fucked up. Now all that’s left is to see just how badly.</strike>
</p>
<hr/><p>“So,” John says, a little awkwardly.</p><p>“So,” Crocker says back, with just enough of an edge to it to be mocking. His voice rasps, an unfamiliar edge to it. John doesn't know where it's come from. He’s quiet now, as he has been the entire night, and it shouldn’t be so unusual, and maybe John should be grateful for it, but he’s not. It just leaves him feeling off-balance and unsure. The weight of Crocker’s gaze is a heavy thing instead, and it holds- a lot, even through his shades.</p><p>The blindfold is off, and John had pretended not to see how he slumped in relief when it was removed. He doesn't know what that's about, nor the weird way he'd said he'd been restrained before- <em>John</em> hasn't done it, because Crocker'd never let him, and he was fine with it. Really. His hands are still tied, though, and he's bearing it a lot better than John had expected. He's bearing <em>all</em> of this a lot better than John might've expected, and he feels- okay, he feels some kind of way about it, despite himself.</p><p>John tamps down on the errant thought that he doesn’t look like he belongs here at all, and instead focuses on normal things, like how <em>weird</em> it is not to see him in a suit. Not that John thinks anyone would ever mistake him for a regular person, but he’s definitely dressed like one, and it’s jumbling a lot of images in his brain.</p><p>Sure, John knows that he’s human. It’s different to have him look it. Mostly look it, anyway. There’s still a lot in the way that Crocker carries himself, his shoulders too square, his steps too silent, the way his presence just looms up to fill a room and waits quietly. It’s impressive, for someone in sweatpants that are very close to falling off his hips.</p><p>(John is also trying not to think about how well he knows the jut of each hipbone, how he's bruised them up before, because seriously! Not the time! The sweatpants shouldn't look so good on him; they're John's, they're like two sizes too big because John is way broader than him, but. They do, and what the fuck.)</p><p>“We’re here?” John tries. “We made it.”</p><p>“We did.” Crocker hesitates for a moment, looking at him. “Thanks for letting me keep the shades.”</p><p>“Don’t thank me, they did come up clean, after all. Like. Not that I thought you’d try to smuggle in tech or anything, I guess, but. They really are just regular shades in a stupid shape?”</p><p>“They’re not stupid. They’re meant to mimic the shapes on the new generations of Imperial Drones.”</p><p>John isn’t really sure he buys that, because as far as he knows, those Drones were around <em>after</em> Dirk was born. If he was born. Came into being? It’d be rude to ask if he was born, at this point, right?</p><p>God. It shouldn’t be so different, having him here. John’s pretty sure he should be celebrating- and maybe he will, later, when he’s on his own. He doesn’t think Crocker would really appreciate it if he started doing that now. But this doesn’t feel like very much of a win, and he’s not certain what to do with that. Maybe it’s just that Crocker isn’t his usual scathing self, maybe it’s the reality of what he’s managed to pull off finally setting in.</p><p>“If you say so,” John shrugs. “I kind of think they look like that one blue-haired guy from that anime.”</p><p>He’s not sure if the stare, or the silence, is one that means John is a hundred percent on the money, or if Crocker just doesn’t know what he’s talking about. That’s more like it, really.</p><p>“Fucking weeb,” Dirk says, succinct and deadpan, and John can’t help the hysterical little laugh that bubbles past his lips. Fucking weeb indeed, from a guy in Kamina shades.</p><p>“Wow! Look who’s saying that, Mr. Anime Man himself,” he retorts.</p><p>“Why would that be me?” Crocker asks, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not-,” he pauses. “I <em>wasn’t</em> the one in charge of entertainment and propaganda.”</p><p>There’s a sharp edge to Crocker’s voice as he says that, and John really, really hates that he feels guilty about it.</p><p>That he feels guilty about the whole thing, at all. It’s not like he’d expected Crocker to actually take him up on his offer, to be honest- not then, and not ever, even if it’d been months since he’d blurted it out. But, he couldn’t turn him away. For- work reasons, of course. No way were they going to let a chance like this slip out their hands; it’d be crushing for CrockerCorp to lose him.</p><p>But to watch him lose the suit first, step into a decontamination chamber and then an EMP to disable all the nanotech he’s crawling with, and see his jaw clench so tight John’s surprised he doesn’t splinter his teeth, to see him have to pass his katana over and then his shades- and he’d hesitated at those, too. It was a lot, and John hates feeling like it’s his fault.</p><p>(To see his eyes, too. Bright orange, like a sunset, like fruit, like fire, something Crocker has <em>never</em> let him see and probably never wanted him to, let alone any of the strangers there- John’s never felt like he’s intruding on something so much. He tells himself he was respecting some modicum of privacy, by not watching. He knows he’s lying to himself, he knows that Crocker would be disgusted by it, but he needs to keep doing it.)</p><p>He can’t be thinking like this, he can’t. It’s not like he’s <em>compromised</em>, not with Crocker here, and without any pursuit they’d covered nearly five hundred miles, and there’s not even a whisper of news breaking that he’s gone yet either, so he knows that Crocker hasn’t told anyone anything about this. He also knows that there’s no way he’s got any tracking devices on him- and John’s not going to have any kind of nightmares thinking about him ripping a chip from the back of his neck and faking a trail with it, no way. He’s definitely not admiring how badass it is, either. Dirk Crocker is not badass. He’s just- a force of nature, practically. God.</p><p>And now he’s just sitting here, bantering like nothing’s happened, like he isn’t sitting at John’s mercy.</p><p>Jeez, all those sordid meetings are telling him that he really likes having Crocker at his mercy, and it’s some weird conditioned response. But the rest of his brain is whispering no, not like this. He thinks if he tried to touch Crocker now, after all this, he’d get his hand taken off.</p><p>John doesn’t realize how long he’s been silent, not until Crocker clears his throat delicately. Somehow, he’s <em>also</em> good at making it sound snide, like John’s wasting his time by sitting there like an idiot. Nice to see he hasn’t lost <em>that</em> particular skill.</p><p>“So, what’s next?” he asks, and John knows he’s not imagining the faint shake in his voice, even if Crocker’s expression is as smooth as anything.</p><p>John takes a breath. “We wait.”</p><p>“What, that’s it? That’s your grand plan?” Crocker asks, contempt dripping off every word.</p><p>“No, that’s not my <em>grand plan</em>, but I’m not the person in charge, and like. Decisions need to be made. About how to handle you.”</p><p>Crocker’s lips press together into a thin, severe line.</p><p>“I see.”</p><p>John doesn’t know how to answer that. Because he is pretty fucking sure that whatever Crocker sees is probably not what’s going to actually happen. He’s also pretty fucking sure that what Crocker sees happens to be John’s incompetence, which is just rude- he’s not incompetent, he’s just also not the person who has the final say about this. Which, honestly? Should’ve been expected. Everyone knows who the real person in charge around here is.</p><p>“It’s nothing bad,” he tries to reassure the guy anyway. He’s just met with silence, and Crocker’s head turning to pointedly look at the wall. John’s going to take notes on how to deliver a completely sick burn nonverbally one day, he is. He’ll develop that skill.</p><p>The quiet drags out, and it just gets more and more unsettling. John can’t shake the feeling that they’ve crossed some line, that Crocker’s made some kind of decision about him, without him, and he doesn’t know what to do about that. He can’t shake that dumb guilt, either. He’s done the right thing. He knows he has. That’s their whole shtick, doing the right thing.</p><p>John stands abruptly. “I- have to go. Arrange stuff. Important stuff.” He doesn’t wait for a reply before he goes- he’s not running or fleeing, thanks, he’s just going quickly like any normal busy guy-, but the silence chases him out anyway.</p><p>The knot in his throat remains.</p>
<hr/><p>Three entire, miserable, excruciating, <em>eternal</em> days later, two people walk into Dirk's cell.</p><p>And yes, that’s what it is, no matter that Egbert can’t admit it and in fact refuses to acknowledge it. He doesn’t need to; Dirk’s content to be mostly left in peace, even if he suspects that’s due to his presence being a secret rather than any kind of decency or charity on their part. There's bars, it's a cell, and it isn't pretending to be anything else. </p><p>Well, the bars are shoddy workmanship at best, they look like they've come from an IKEA and someone didn't know how to assemble them properly.</p><p>But that’s neither here nor there. He has guests, and he has to act accordingly. So Dirk sits up straighter, even after he registers that it’s John. There’s someone with him- he catches a flash of blonde hair in a neat bob, dark clothes, before they’re turning away to stride down the hall, heels clicking neatly against the floor. He suppresses a shudder at the noise.</p><p>His head is still aching, and every single inch of his body feels wrong, awful, his skin crawling and shifting and being in general too tight. He’s wanted to vomit for the past forty-eight hours, he’s fairly sure. He has not, of course, vomited. That would be unseemly, and whatever conclusions might be drawn from it, they wouldn’t be good ones.</p><p>Realistically, he's lucky they didn't come sooner; he'd been barely able to <em>move</em> before yesterday, stuck in bed sweating and pale and sicker than he's been since Mother tested the new Gushers formulation on them. He knows why. Of course he does. He just, like a fucking <em>moron, </em>hadn't taken it into account. He's still getting used to the newness of his body, the way it doesn't quite feel like his own, the way that it's got new limits that he's going to have to find out how to work around. He knows he's probably lost mass in both muscle and fat, but he can't calculate how much. He knows that he's less strong besides, but he doesn't know by how much, he can't test it on anything here. He knows that he won't heal as fast, but a-fucking-gain, he doesn't know by how much.</p><p>And Dirk hates not knowing things. </p><p>He doesn’t want to betray any impatience, but he <em>is</em> impatient, and he suspects Egbert already knows that. Dirk has been waiting here for two days already with nothing but his own thoughts, and he needs to know what’s going to happen to him. He feels beyond naked, almost sluggish, but his migraine of two days has finally started to abate, so he supposes he should be somewhat happy about that. And he isn't going to vomit now, because he hasn't actually eaten anything in the past day. Works wonders for keeping food down, that does. He'll have to soon, but the nausea's still here, and the worst of the shakes aren't yet gone, so maybe some bread (which he has been provided) and water, and then he can try for the...slop.</p><p>(He keeps finding himself looking for information on his shades that aren’t there, or waiting for feedback for a system that he <strike>cut himself out off, thorough but clumsy so it’d at least sem like he wasn’t the one to do it</strike> can no longer access. He tries to focus on how it’s just boring instead of feeling like he’s missing a sense or some vital part of himself. Mostly it just makes him really get a sense of how quiet and crowded his head is, even with just him here. He tries to focus on his body, with all its more intricate, beautiful workings, everything that made him <em>him</em> now gone inert and floating in his blood, their delicate systems fried beyond repair. <strike>Mother would be so upset at this work gone to waste.</strike>)</p><p>(But there’s a clarity to be found, too. He doesn’t know how long they’ll keep him, but every minute is one without Dave breathing down his neck, one without the TiaraTop looming just above his head. He just doesn’t want to admit it.)</p><p>“Okay, well. It’s been decided,” Egbert says, and the faint smile he gives Dirk is too tinged with uncertainty for it to be good news.</p><p>“Is that so? Go on, then, regale me with the gory details. I assume I won’t get the lethal injection, that would be too humane, and more than that, it’d be a waste of good resources. Are you going to crush my skull with that hammer of yours? Because if so, I must say I’d rather stick to historical precedent and be subject to the guillotine. I’ll even declare that they ought to eat cake in French, for accuracy and irony,” Dirk says, watching Egbert’s reactions all the while. He pales a little with each one, but he looks too horrified to be the one carrying out either of those. “And that way, you get to send the head back. Not that it will do you any good, mind.”</p><p>“No- what is wrong with you?” John finally bursts out. He looks like he’s going to be sick; he’s squeamish, for someone who knew there was a high chance that he was bringing Dirk here to die. Or be tortured and then die. Whichever. He’s had far too much time to think about this. “There’s going to be a trial.”</p><p>“Oh,” Dirk says. And then, “Well, fuck.”</p><p>No wonder Egbert looked nervous about telling him.</p><p>“No, no, it’s okay. We’ll prep for it, I don’t think- I mean. It’s not going to be good, if you lose.”</p><p>“Why, Mr. Egbert,” Dirk says, with a razor-sharp smile. “You’re a raging hypocrite, to be subverting the scales of justice so.”</p><p>“I’m not! It’s going to be fair,” John insists. He’s an idiot, an idealistic idiot, and Dirk has never been able to grind that out of him for all their trysts and fights and insults. It’s a shame; if he lost that naiveté, he’d be much better as a weapon. But if he lost it, perhaps he wouldn’t be himself either.</p><p>“If you say so,” Dirk tells him, making sure that his tone is dripping doubt and condescension. “Is the aim to get me to beg for some sort of plea deal in exchange for my life, then?”</p><p>“That…wasn’t discussed,” John hedges. What a liar. He snaps his attention to the woman standing unobtrusively behind Egbert with a pensive look on her face. He knows who she is, of course. Rose Lalonde, leader of the Resistance, Public Enemy Number One to both Dave and his Mother. She’s shorter than he expected, and- hm.</p><p>She looks much younger than she ought to.</p><p>Some things start to slide into place. He lets them, but says nothing.</p><p>“Lalonde, I presume,” Dirk says, keeping his eyes on her. “I’d say it was a pleasure to meet you, but the only mutual feeling here is aversion.”</p><p>“Quite presumptuous indeed,” she answers. Her voice is low, smooth, a little husky. Not entirely unpleasant to listen to; there’s a resonant note to it that’s familiar to him. “But let us not abandon such pleasantries entirely. You may not be a man that is often wrong, Mr. Crocker, but you can believe me when I tell you that it is certainly a pleasure to have you here.”</p><p>Dirk gives her a smile that’s all teeth.</p><p>“Yes, I imagine it is. Must be the wet dream of a terrorist organization, to have someone from the upper echelons of the government within their grasp.”</p><p>“Is that what we are? Terrorists?”</p><p>“Officially speaking, yes.”</p><p>“And unofficially speaking?”</p><p>“No comment, Ms. Lalonde. I’m not one to go off the record, you see.”</p><p>“So I’ve gathered. Imagine my surprise at how easily you rebuffed any attempt Mr. Egbert here made at gathering information through you.”</p><p>“Despite all appearances, I’m very good at my job.”</p><p>“You <em>were</em> good at your job,” Lalonde says, far too soft for the knife that slips between his ribs. Dirk doesn’t let it show. He can’t let her trip him up, not now.</p><p>“I think you’ll find that the description is quite flexible,” he replies simply.</p><p>“Flexible enough to include infiltration, one might think.”</p><p>“If you believed that was my goal, you wouldn’t be standing here in front of me while I was unrestrained.”</p><p>“It would be suicidal of you to attack me now, and you don’t strike me as a man who wishes for self-destruction.”</p><p>“And yet here I am,” he points out. “What have I chosen, if not that?”</p><p>“Oh, any number of things. Freedom, independence, the greater good.”</p><p>“You ascribe a surprising amount of altruism to me, Ms. Lalonde, I’m absolutely flattered to be in your good books.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t go quite that far, Mr. Crocker,” Lalonde tells him, her own smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “But work hard and you may get there yet.”</p><p><em>You’re gonna go far, guppy</em> wars with <em>you ain’t gonna do shit, brat</em>, and Dirk’s eyes narrow behind his shades. All words said in the same tone.</p><p>“I didn’t come here to get into your good graces. In fact, if you assume I came here for freedom, it would be a direct contradiction of my goals.”</p><p>“And what are your goals, then? You claim they’re not altruistic, which I must believe, as you’d know your motivations better than I. You say that you aren’t here for me, but then that begs the question of who are you here for?” Her gaze slides over to Egbert, lingers there meaningfully for a long moment. If Lalonde thinks this is subtle, she might need to consult a dictionary as a reminder of the definition of the word.</p><p>“I’m here for entirely selfish reasons, I’m afraid,” Dirk admits. He does it as casually as he can; it’s fully sunk in by now, but Dirk has not made a selfish decision in a long, long time. If at all. Perhaps there were a few that he can no longer remember. But nothing of this magnitude; Dave has always been the selfish one, and Dirk was made to counteract that, to be level-headed and to get the job done. To not run off and do exactly this. Yet another ironic twist. “Simply put, it was unsustainable for me to remain there. And so, here I am.”</p><p>“Is that all?”</p><p>“Of course. Where else would I go?” he asks. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Egbert flinch slightly. Lalonde’s smile widened.</p><p>“You’re resourceful, Mr. Crocker.”</p><p>“The Company is more so, Ms. Lalonde. Now are you going to continue this posturing, or have my reasons satisfied you? I can promise, if there is a moral test that I have to take, I can pretend as well as is needed to pass it.”</p><p>“How reassuring. But I wonder, would it be entirely a pretense?”</p><p>“You know who I am, Ms. Lalonde. Could it ever be anything else?”</p><p>“I know who you were, Mr. Crocker,” she corrects, and there’s a quiet authority in her voice that has nothing to do with subsonic frequencies and highblood-to-lowblood inflections. “Who you are now, and who you will be, are entirely up to you.”</p><p>Dirk doesn’t like the way she looks at him, assessing and almost hopeful all at once. Years of experience with both Mother and Dave have taught him how to recognize a test when he sees one, and how to parse out the Right answers from the Wrong. But this isn’t a question, it’s simply a statement, and actions are going to decide it, not words that he can twist to his purpose later. She wants him to know that this is a test, too, and it’s that overt, hitting-him-over-the-head with the point attitude of hers that he <em>really</em> loathes. Whatever happened to subtlety?</p><p>“That’s quite philosophical of you,” he offers instead. “I knew you wrote books, but it seems you’ve made a career in fortune cookies, as well. Tell me, what are my lucky numbers? They’d better be four hundred and twenty, sixty-nine, and six.”</p><p>“Why six?” Egbert butts in, disrupting- whatever answer she was going to give him. Probably for the best. Dirk narrows his eyes at John behind his shades, and receives a guileless smile in return. A crock of shit, if he’s ever seen one.</p><p>“It’s the smallest perfect number,” he answers. “Not that it matters, anyway. We were getting rather off topic.”</p><p>“That we were,” Rose Lalonde says, in the tone of voice that warns him the conversation isn’t over, and in fact will be resumed when she wants it, at a time most inconvenient to him. But he’s used to attitudes like that, and Dirk doubts that any time would be truly convenient, given his circumstances.</p><p>He’s quite literally at her disposal, and if he thinks too long about it, he’s going to make himself sick. Quietly, of course, but he doesn’t doubt that someone, somewhere is watching. They always are, even if the camera in here is cleverly hidden.</p><p>“So,” she continues, hands clasped neatly in front of her, all prim and proper. Her bracelets click against one another as she does; they’re not gaudy, but they’re certainly not understated. They look like cuffs. He wonders if that’s deliberate. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t think so, but he suspects Lalonde knows just as much as he does how important an appearance is. Whether this is an attempt to curry empathy with him, or a snide reminder, or something else entirely, is yet to be determined. “The trial. You’ll have a few weeks to prepare, and it’s- quite informal, despite what John over here has said. All you need to do is convince me and my peers that you’ll be an asset to our cause.”</p><p>Now that’s some interesting linguistic framing. She’s clearly had experience with this kind of thing before, but that’s no surprise, given how successful she’s been in the past at attracting defectors. And, perhaps, in the present, though Dirk is entirely unwilling to give her credit in his own decision beyond the permission for him to be here.</p><p>“And a detriment to your enemy’s?” Dirk asks, polite as he can manage.</p><p>“Your enemy, too,” she informs him. And when he doesn’t answer, she adds, “You did come here, after all. And we both know how the Batterwitch treats traitors.”</p><p>“Believe me,” Dirk tells her, “I know. But it isn’t <em>her</em> that deals with them. Likely, it would be cleaner if she did.”</p><p>There’s a shift in her expression, so subtle that Dirk would have missed it if he weren’t looking for a sliver of weakness in her composed mask.</p><p>“Is that so? Would you be speaking from experience.”</p><p>“Not entirely. But everyone knows Dave’s quite the messy eater.”</p><p>Lalonde merely hums, but Dirk can tell he’s thrown her just a bit. Now that’s interesting, too; he’s starting to see why Dave’s issue with her is personal, but it seems it’s personal on her end too, albeit in a different way. The ruthless part of him catalogues this as a weakness he can use, a sore spot he can poke at. The more intelligent part of him is very aware that it isn’t one he should be bruising too aggressively.</p><p>“But of course, none of that changes the fact that I did come here of my own volition,” he says. It’s not conciliatory in any way that matters, but it’s a trick to return them to conversation and to smooth things over. She clearly recognizes it, but she lets it happen.</p><p>“Precisely, Mr. Crocker. And while I am willing to do what is in my power to ensure you do not meet an unpleasant fate-,” this, said with the kind of polite smile Dirk instinctively <em>does</em> associate with an unpleasant fate, and so he isn’t buying this at all, “You are going to have to meet me halfway.”</p><p>“Ms. Lalonde, do you really expect me to believe that?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “What exactly is the reason that you’re not simply using those unpleasant methods to get the information out of me? Don’t tell me that Mr. Egbert simply asked nicely to convince you not to- that, I won’t believe.”</p><p>And that much is very true. Dirk knows that by the rules of any kind of blackrom, he wouldn’t be able to send John to that fate, regardless of whether or not he’d be forced into taking part in it. But John doesn’t play by those rules- in fact, with things so different now, those rules don’t apply.</p><p>He needs to stop acting like they do.</p><p>“Hey,” Egbert says, and there’s a note of hurt in his voice. Dirk isn’t sure if it’s manufactured or not- if it is, then why put on the act? If not- well. Dirk isn’t sure what to think of that option.</p><p>“No? After spending so much time with him, you don’t think he would intercede on your behalf? Interesting. It seems you sell your charm short, Mr. Crocker.”</p><p>“Hardly, Ms. Lalonde,” Dirk reassures her in exactly the same tone. “I wouldn’t want to overestimate his fondness for me. I’ve hardly had the chance to offer a reminder for why it is he likes me.”</p><p>And, well. He <em>is</em> Dave’s brother, so he flicks his wrist once, pokes his tongue into his cheek just enough to make it obscene. Egbert turns <em>red</em>. Lalonde seems unfazed to anyone else, Dirk’s sure, but he’s looking closely enough that he can see the furrow of her brows, the faint twist of her lips. Suddenly, quite a lot about his brother’s habits make sense.</p><p>“Perhaps you underestimate his fondness for you,” she finally suggests. Disapproval snakes its way into her tone, thrumming underneath with enough force to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. It’s a very particular reaction, one that he’s sure most would find disarming, but Dirk has been to the Dark Carnival more times than he can count, even if it is Dave who’s nominally in charge of the chaos contained within the deep indigo tents. It takes more than that to get under his skin, psychically speaking.</p><p>“Perhaps we ought not to do him the discredit of assuming there’s fondness at all,” he offers in return.</p><p>“Perhaps you guys could stop talking about him like he’s not in the room?” Egbert butts in, apparently having recovered now. Shame. He does look so good flustered- and that’s not a thought that he should be having. Dirk’s always been careful about regulating what he thinks, he should be better at keeping John Egbert and his attractiveness out of his head.</p><p>“We could, but where would the fun in that be?” Dirk retorts anyway. It’s reflexive. He’s going to have to work a lot harder at not responding.</p><p>“I don’t know, making sense to other people and not talking over them seems pretty fun from where I’m standing,” Egbert complains, as if he’s addressing Lalonde too. He’d never, though. That’s the kind of disrespect that would get anyone punished, especially when it’s not for the sake of a show in front of a prisoner. Especially when it’s sincere, as what most of Egbert does is. Disgustingly so, in fact.</p><p>Dirk watches, and- nothing happens.</p><p>Well, that’s not too surprising. They wouldn’t do it in front of him, either; Dirk’s never lashed out at a subordinate in front of a prisoner himself. He’s Dave’s brother, yes, but he’s not <em>Dave</em>. He’s got no need for that sort of petty lashing out. It remains to be seen what damage Lalonde might do. Nothing lasting, he’s sure; Egbert is a Face- and no, this is not his own biases speaking. It’s the same reason Mother has tiptoed around actually ending him, the same reason she reached out to him to be a brand ambassador eight years ago when Egbert was just starting out on the comedy circuit and the Rebranding was just around the corner. He has charisma, people listen, and more importantly- he’s famous, and with that, comes a certain aspect of untouchability.</p><p>You have to be careful, when you make a celebrity like John Egbert disappear. You have to be careful, how you hurt him.</p><p>“Apologies,” Lalonde says instead, and Dirk wonders if that was the point of their bickering. Perhaps it was a show after all, just not the kind he might have expected. One to display how generous she is, how he’s better off here than he would have been. The carrot before the stick. Not entirely ineffective, but the fact of the matter is that Dirk already knows he’s likely better off here. It’s why he’s here to begin with. “Shall I leave you two to discuss the intricacies of the trial, then? John already has all the important details,” Lalonde adds, as if reassuring him. “I simply wanted to meet you before it all went underway, and I don’t have quite enough time for a…prolonged conversation.”</p><p><em>Yet</em>, hovers in the air. <em>Until you give me a reason</em>, lingers with it. <em>And please, let that be a reason that gives me cause to bury my hand to the wrist in your ribcage</em>, says her smile, icy and perfect.</p><p>“Of course. I imagine you have plenty to do, stirring civil unrest and attempting to topple governments,” Dirk says mildly. “It was…interesting to meet you, Ms. Lalonde. I look forward to seeing you again.”</p><p>He offers her a smile too, one that says <em>just try it, you’ll lose the hand</em>.</p><p>Her eyes lid, her smile shifts into a smirk, and that’s when Dirk <em>knows</em>. He and Rose Lalonde are the exact same type of creature on the inside.</p><p>Now isn't that interesting?</p><p>He watches her go, keeps his eyes on the door even as Egbert starts going over the important details of what’s likely going to determine his lifespan, sounding very earnest about helping him prepare, and ensuring he says the right things.</p><p>That’s all well and good, but Dirk isn't paying attention at all. He's still wrong-footed, at one hell of a disadvantage, and there's no way this <em>trial</em> is going to go in his favor unless he finds a good angle and works it. Only then is he going to deal with Egbert, who's looking too bright-eyed to be anything but suspicious.</p><p>But before all that?</p><p>He's got <em>other</em> things to consider.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Note the unreliable narrator tag, newly added ;)</p><p>Tl;dr- Dirk leaves, is sick because everything that Betty shoved into his food is no longer being provided, and he's got a hell of a lot to adjust to without his bioware, and there will be a trial. He's not pleased about any of this.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Ended up splitting this chapter into two, so here's the first (filler) slice of it. Very Dirk-centric, very introspective.</p><p>TW: Kidnapping mention, oblique references to abuse.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The details of the trial are myriad, and Dirk stores each and every single one in his mind to pore over at his own convenience. He dedicates himself to this task just like he would to work. Old habits die hard.</p><p>(And he convinces himself that it’s just like work. He’ll lie through his teeth and smile as needed, he’ll do what he’s told no matter how much it chafes at him. He’s always had to pare himself down and offer each splinter up to show people what it is they wanted to see, and this? This is no different.</p><p>
  <strike>It is, though. Because he doesn’t know what, exactly, is expected of him. Because he knows there’s no point to it, that this is a fucking sham at best, and it makes it that much harder to grit his teeth and bear it. Egbert is a liar and he should’ve seen it sooner, he shouldn’t have bought into those bright blue eyes and too-earnest too-smug smile, all those stupid warm words aimed at getting under his skin in the way that their petty insults never could.</strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>He hates the look in Egbert’s eyes now, like the guy thinks he’s helping Dirk, like he’s taking <em>pity</em> on him, or even worse, like he’s pretending to. He doesn’t know which is worse: if this is a lie and Egbert’s fooled the same as him, or if Dirk’s the naked Emperor in this situation.</strike>
</p><p><strike>This is what happens when you trust people that aren’t family.</strike>)</p><p>Sure, he’ll wake up at what he assumes is the crack of dawn on habit, get up and start moving, pushed by instinct more than anything else. He’ll sit up in bed, shaky and weak, and realize that no, he can’t go swimming. No, there’s no gym for him to work out at, no conditioning to be done that he’s used to, no papers that need signing or legislation to look over or executions to handle.</p><p>Instead, there’s only this room and its flimsy bars that were obviously only recently installed, like he isn’t even worth it. There’s only eighteen square feet of space which he makes do with anyway, because he has to move, he might be weaker now, coming off of everything that once made him<em> useful</em>, but that doesn’t mean he has to wallow in the weakness. That would be unacceptable, simply put. There’s a shower which barely coughs up some hot water for him to use, in a bathroom the approximate size of a closet. There’s a mattress that’s half-decent, at least, but small and soft to the point of suffocating, meant for a child of some kind, maybe. His legs hang off the damn thing, if he lays down straight. There’s pillows that feel like sponge, there’s three meals of pure slop a day, there’s mind-numbing boredom until Egbert shows up to tell him (again, and again, and again) what he needs to do and how he needs to act, and that things are going to work out and he’ll be out of here, soon.</p><p>Out of here and in the ground, maybe.</p><p>Egbert is a lot more talkative, these days, and he’s said a lot of vague details, repeated himself even more, and looked like he’d wanted to be anywhere but here during those first few speeches. That’s fine. Dirk can relate, and more to the point, he can extrapolate.</p><p>But what it boils down to is that he needs to make a convincing show and sincerity and of repentance, and they’ll let him live. Or at least not torture him too much before the execution, but that might be a touch cynical. Egbert says more, of course, each time they meet, as the days inch by and the Appointed Date grows closer. Sometimes it’s the same nonsense, sometimes he’s trying to either make himself or Dirk feel better. Which is something that Dirk doesn’t understand: he’s not <em>fine</em>, necessarily, but he will be.</p><p>He isn’t afraid.</p><p>It’s hard to be scared of the inevitable, when it comes down to it. But Egbert seems oddly invested in helping him, and they don’t even flirt that much when the other man comes to help him prepare. This mostly consists of Egbert telling him things that would be good to say, and then changing his mind halfway through. Dirk listens, of course. He has to.</p><p>But when Egbert leans into him, offers a teasing comment to try and elicit a reaction, he doesn’t do anything in return. He wants to, and he hates that he wants to, but Dirk is nothing if not determined to give him nothing. It’s infuriating, more than anything else, how John is so determined to act like nothing has changed, as if Dirk is that stupid. And perhaps he is, for coming here. The jury- pun unintended- remains out on that. But things have changed, whether or not Egbert realizes it, whether or not this is some kind of a ploy- and that, Dirk can’t figure out no matter how much time he dedicates to thinking of it, late at night, when the lights have dimmed to nothing and he can just barely make out the texture of the ceiling above him.</p><p>(His eyesight, notably, hasn’t suffered too much. He’d always relied more on his shades than any direct enhancements; he supposes he should maybe be thankful for that.)</p><p>Dirk doubts it’s a deliberate ploy, and maybe that’s simply because he doesn’t want to be played for a fool, doesn’t want to be wrong, despite the current situation. But what would be worse than that, worse than pity, is that if it were just reflex, ingrained habit, that Egbert simply needs to grow out of again, even if Dirk does want to cling to it. But he’s not a child anymore, crying and pathetic, living off scraps of kindness and pity when shown. And now that he’s here, now that Egbert has what he wants? It stings to think that he’s still doing this. It makes Dirk’s stomach churn.</p><p>He only has secrets to give, and those, he’s well-practiced at keeping from Egbert.</p><p>So they prepare, and Dirk dutifully rehearses different speeches that he can’t tell if John wrote or if they’re coming from Lalonde, if they’re meant to turn sympathy away from him. There’s nothing wrong with them, of course, not on a surface level. They’re just not believable. Dirk doesn’t believe it when he says them, and John doesn’t believe it when he says them. They aren’t going to buy this, and when Dirk snaps as much across a stack of index cards at Egbert, he gets the answer of, “well, they’re going to, if you say it right, so just do it again, okay?”</p><p>Dirk doesn’t know why he sounds so frustrated. But he grits his teeth and deals with it. He’s dealt with worse than these interminable <em>preparation session</em><em>s</em>, and while it is probably the best case scenario he could’ve been dealing with, that doesn’t mean he has to like them.</p><p>The only useful parts of them are when he gets Egbert to tell him about his prospective jury, and there’s only three of them.</p><p>“I can’t be involved,” John’d said, almost apologetically. “It’s, like- a tiebreaker thing, partially? And the rest of it is because we were, uh, involved. I kind of already vouched for you, bringing you here, so everyone already knows what I’d say. And- don’t focus on them either, okay? It’s not just Rose and Kanaya and Karkat that you really need to convince, it’s going to have to be everyone who’s around and wants to listen to this happen.”</p><p>“You’ve recused yourself? How useful,” Dirk had drawled out, the only cutting remark he’d allowed himself that day. It’s a fucking process, okay? “I can’t wait to be judged by your horde of people who hate me and everything that I did.”</p><p>“It’s going to be <em>fair</em>,” Egbert had insisted, making absolutely no comment on the mob part of it, which was reassuring. Not. But Dirk had no desire- still has no desire- to waste his breath on explaining otherwise. Nothing is fair, not really, and he knows this better than most. How many people has he ensured never got the chance to walk free, because what they had to say, or what they might do had been deemed dangerous? And yes, often by him. He doesn’t regret it; if he lets himself look back, if he lets himself even <em>start</em> to feel sorry about that, he’s going to drown in it. He knows he is.</p><p>But <em>I did it because I had to, because she told me to, because you don’t understand what it’s like, to have her smile at you and be proud, or tell you that you </em>have<em> to get this right,</em> is not exactly an excuse. Not for anything. Dirk doesn’t want to take advantage of anyone’s pity; he doesn’t want to be pitied at all, actually, least of all by these people.</p><p>If they were smart, they would kill him and let it be done. If they were smart, they would get it on fucking <em>video</em>, bake his body into a cake, and send it to Mother. If they were ruthless enough, they would. Surely there have to be some would-be leaders among them who’d want it, but the truth is that Dirk hasn’t seen hide nor hair of anyone that’s not Egbert and the silent Carapacian with a vacant stare that comes to drop his food off, so those who are that against him clearly aren’t being given any chances. Either that, or they’re not determined enough to do anything about it.</p><p>He thinks Egbert might protest, if they did. If Lalonde let them. It makes something twinge in his chest like a disused muscle. Because he knows that it wouldn’t do a single damn thing. He’s met Rose Lalonde only once, and he can tell she is a force of nature, with the kind of iron-fisted control over her people that Mother would admire. That Dirk can’t help but to grudgingly admire. He doesn’t like her, but he respects her- and now, after meeting her, he knows why Mother and Dave have targeted her so personally this whole time. She’s so much more dangerous than anyone else she might have gotten on her side, or coaxed into following her like lambs to the slaughter. Under her skin, she’s the same kind of animal as the rest of them, and it’s wary recognition that follows every time he catches a glimpse of her, waiting outside, her smile self-assured and her lavender eyes flat and cool. Assessing, waiting.</p><p>He’s yet to figure out what it is she’s waiting for. His death, maybe. Her needles, sinking into his chest. Let her try, he thinks to himself, but never voices to John. He’ll rip her throat out with his teeth if she gets close enough for that, if it’s with his dying breath. He wonders if Egbert knows the kind of monster he’s allied himself with, if he even cares. He knew the one he was getting into bed with, that’s for sure.</p><p>She wants him to fail, and that is the only reason that Dirk entertains the garbage Egbert is spewing at him, because he’s Dirk Crocker (is he, though? Is he still that person, after giving up so much, after throwing it all away like a fucking ungrateful child?) and he’ll succeed just to spite her and wipe the smug look off her face.</p><p>He says what needs to be said, he modulates his smile into something soft and harmless- and that too, is easy enough, because he’s had to do it before, but it’s a bitter pill to swallow, to make himself seem <em>lesser</em>. He’d thought he wouldn’t have to do it here. He’d wanted to promise himself, no. Never again. He was done being second-best, stroking egos, keeping himself in a box to suit others.</p><p>But that was then, and morals are not to be suited when it comes to survival. And as the days tick down, and he spends his nights going through idea after idea, contingency after contingency, any way to twist this to his advantage, he doesn’t bother telling himself that it’s going to work. He doesn’t bother regretting leaving, either.</p><p>He’d drown in that too, if he started.</p><p>There’s a thought, maybe they would do that, for irony. A pity, Dirk can hold his breath much longer than most, and he’s long since welcomed the burn of salt in his lungs, over and over, until he’s reduced once again to a pathetic, base thing, malleable and gasping for air. It never made the re-education easier, but that wasn’t the point.</p><p>“Hey- are you even paying attention,” breaks his reverie, and Dirk blinks, turning to look at Egbert. Who else would be there?</p><p>“Yes,” he lies easily. “You were talking about the trial.”</p><p>The trial is the only thing they’ve been talking about, and Dirk is both relieved and frustrated. But it’s fine- he knows he has to get through it, and he has the kernels of something that <em>might</em> work best as a backup.</p><p>John seems mollified, anyway. Well, if everyone else is that easy to fool, perhaps he shouldn’t be so worried.</p><p>“Okay, well. I think we’ve done pretty much everything we can,” Egbert sighs, slouching lower on the chair that’s been provided for him. Dirk’s just been sitting on his bed, or on the floor, in turns. When he’s not pacing, of course. “And you’re doing great, now. You had a hard time remembering everything when we first started.”</p><p>“When we first started, I felt like I was going to vomit at any given point,” he answers, dryly. This is not a lie, nor an exaggeration, for all that Egbert rolls his eyes. Dirk simply hasn’t been eating what he’s used to, especially in terms of anything specific Mother may or may not have added for his own good, and detoxification is not a pretty process. To say the least.</p><p>“I know you <em>hate</em> listening to anyone who’s not yourself-,” false, but very few people make <em>more</em> sense than Dirk does, or are worth listening to in the first place-, “but you’ve done a good job, okay? Like. I know the situation’s kind of fucked up, but. You’re going to do fine through this, and then we’ll figure it out from there.”</p><p>God. He’s going to choke on John Egbert’s fucking optimism, isn’t he. He just wishes it wasn’t entirely baseless.</p><p>(And part of him <em>is</em> furious about that, how Lalonde could just let him believe this is going to work if that’s her plan, how Lalonde is just letting him talk to Dirk, spend more and more time with him, as if that’s going to change the outcome at all. She has her own schemes, and for all that anyone wants to say it’s a fair trial, he knows that when he walks into that room, every single person in it will have already made up their mind about him. And he knows what they’ll be thinking, too, because it’s the image he’s spent his entire life growing into and then carefully cultivating. Only to throw away all the reasons he’d built it up.)</p><p>(But he isn’t furious for himself, no. These are games that Dirk knows how to play, because he was born into them. But John? No. He wasn’t. Because Egbert, for all his flaws, for all that he’s promised so much and Dirk is here, lured in by sweet pathetic hopes, seems to be fucking<em> sincere</em> about helping him. That’s the worst part of it all. John Egbert’s many things, and maybe she turned him into a liar before, but has she really, for this? Dirk doesn’t like false hope, doesn’t see the use in it here- not for inspiring it in Egbert, at least, but Dirk wouldn’t have bought into it. He isn’t buying into it, not really. That Lalonde wouldn’t have told Egbert what was going on, what she really wanted, is ridiculous.)</p><p>(And maybe the rest of him is still pissed at Egbert too, the anger mounting and mounting as he pushes it down each time. They’re not together, they’re not <em>anything</em>, but he still tries to act familiar, like Dirk is still something to him. He’s still pretending that things are just as they were, despite things very fucking obviously not being as they were. They’re never going to be like that again, and Dirk- he can’t think about hypotheticals, what he would’ve done, what he could’ve done differently. That thing with Egbert, it wasn’t going to last either way. But to have the man himself acting otherwise? It’s bitter, it rings false, and Dirk can’t- won’t- let himself cling to that any longer. One way or another, this is going to be over, and he sure as hell doesn’t want liar extraordinaire John fucking Egbert to be the last thing he sees.)</p><p>He says none of this. It’s the same circular argument in his head, drawn out over and over again every single time he sees John.</p><p>“Mr. Egbert,” Dirk drawls out instead, with an easy confidence he’s never felt but has always been very good at faking, “It almost sounds like you’re trying to reassure me. Are you feeling quite alright? Do you need to lie down? Get your vitals checked? Do a DNA test?”</p><p>“Fuck all the way off, Crocker,” John says. It’s good-natured, though, if tired. He’s as ready for the wait to be over as Dirk is.</p><p>But the name. It’s not quite right, is it. Not after what he’s done. He doesn’t deserve it.</p><p>He doesn’t say that, either.</p><p>He’s not going to admit that kind of weakness to John Egbert. They’re not playing that game anymore, and he can’t trust Egbert to not use it against him. Not this time. Maybe that’s the part of it that hurts the most- but. No. He’s not going to be any stupider than he has before, by coming here. This is the hand he’d dealt himself, and he can’t actively go and make it worse. He has to keep his head, stay in control.</p><p>“I would, but alas, it seems that I can’t leave,” Dirk shoots back. It’s petty, but Dirk has never attempted to claim the moral high ground with anyone other than his brother. Though, anyone with eyes and a functioning brain would agree with him on that count, so he figures it’s entirely fine.</p><p>“Well, it’s not on me that your family would probably hunt you down if you did.” It’s an unkind truth, unkindly given. But Dirk doesn’t flinch, or react. He won’t give Egbert the satisfaction of knowing any of his sore spots- Egbert knows more about him than he wants already, and he’s done giving more away.</p><p>“Is there news, on that front?” He asks instead, keeps his tone light and conversational. “Or- have they said that I’m gone at all?”</p><p>Egbert looks at him for a long moment, and Dirk decides now is the time to employ the full hour of useless coaching on how to look genuine. Apparently it wasn’t entirely useless, because John sighs deeply, and answers.</p><p>“No, they haven’t. And- okay, I’m not meant to be talking to you about this, but. I thought they would have, by now? It’s been nearly two weeks.”</p><p>“Eighteen days,” Dirk says, automatically. He’s been counting, as best he can.</p><p>“Eighteen days,” Egbert repeats, a little awkward. “Anyway. D’you know why they wouldn’t have said?”</p><p>Dirk lets contempt slip into his expression, now. “Would Lalonde send out missing persons flyers if you or one of her other top generals disappeared?”</p><p>“We’re not generals,” Egbert answers. “This isn’t an actual army or anything, we’re just- trying our best to make things better, however we can. But- no? I mean. People would notice if I was gone anyway, so she wouldn’t really need to. And Karkat and Kanaya have kind of been really under the radar, same with Sollux, so I don’t think the posters would do much good.”</p><p>“Hypothetically, if they weren’t <em>really under the radar</em>, and were instead somewhat known, but not with the same notoriety as you or her. Say, they disappeared, and the other side knows she’s associated with them, but not to the extent. Would you call it a strategic stroke of genius to let on that they’re gone? Or would it be better to find them, quietly, and not show any kind of weakness while doing so?” Dirk explains this as patiently as he can, but it should be obvious. Any toddler who’d read two lines of the Art of War would see why it was obvious.</p><p>“…I guess that makes sense,” Egbert finally says, chewing on his lower lip. “I just thought she’d have made a bigger fuss about it, put more effort into finding you.”</p><p>Dirk shakes his head slightly. “No. She’s putting plenty effort into finding me, I assume, but she’d never want to admit how I vanished in the first place. Assuming she still thinks I was taken, which- I doubt, at this point. Anyone who kidnapped me before didn’t last that long. And anyone who got Dave didn’t make it through the night.”</p><p>“Yikes,” Egbert mutters- and then pauses for a second. “Wait, you were kidnapped before?”</p><p>“Mr. Egbert, I was the son of one of the most powerful people around, even before the Rebranding. They didn’t need to know any of Mother’s plans to think that she would pay for me, or that the trouble of getting to me would be well-worth a ransom. And after the Rebranding- well. Any number of your organization has probably tried to take me, or take me out, and failed, when I was younger and more vulnerable. And more accessible,” he adds, as an afterthought. “Once I turned sixteen, the attempts largely stopped.”</p><p>He doesn’t say that Mother had likely been behind a few of them, orchestrated them as tests to ensure that Dirk could take care of himself were he to be in the public eye. He doesn’t say that Dave had probably been behind a few more, the ones that he wasn’t meant to come back from- Dirk doesn’t know that for certain, and baseless allegations are dangerous things. He certainly isn’t going to bother saying that Lalonde herself was likely behind some of them, too, though those had promised that he’d be safe in New York, that he didn’t have to go back. They didn’t know anything; even as a child, he’d known better. He’d told them as much. Only two attempts like <em>that</em> had been made.</p><p>(He’s never going to admit to believing it, once, when he was younger. But never again. He’d told both Mother and Dave that they’d infiltrated and pretended to be taking him down to the labs. They’d certainly been dressed for it, with a level of detail that would’ve been convincing. Dirk isn’t sure that Dave believed him- but then, Dave was the one who interrogated them.)</p><p>Egbert’s frowning now, and Dirk supposes this is something he shouldn’t have brought up- and certainly, he won’t bring up during his trial. Even if they’d been planning to kill him, admitting to past murders is hardly part of the sympathetic image he’s attempting to cultivate.</p><p>“We don’t do that,” is what Egbert says instead, which Dirk thinks is a laughable defense.</p><p>“No,” he says, acidly. “You just seduce them into leaving instead.”</p><p>There’s an awkward silence, and Egbert’s mouth is twisted into a disapproving frown. Of course it is. Dirk wants to claw his way out of his skin. He hates Egbert looking at him like that, like he’s somehow <em>disappointed</em>. He hates himself for wanting to see pride there instead. It’s likely projection of some kind. Stockholm Syndrome, if it took two weeks to set in and if he hadn’t been…fond…of Egbert before, in some capacity.</p><p>Yeah, right. Dirk has never been that adept at lying to himself, nor at believing lies when they’re told to him, no matter how kindly intended they might be.</p><p>“…Do you feel ready?” Egbert finally asks. There’s no question about what Dirk could be ready for.</p><p>He tips his head up and looks at the ceiling, the harsh fluorescence of the lights.</p><p>“I’m as prepared as I can be, right?” he says. It’s a non-answer, and at the look of exasperation on Egbert’s face, he relents. “Here is a piece of advice, Mr. Egbert. You never let anyone think you <em>aren’t</em> ready. Rest assured that I can handle myself. Especially with all the work we’ve put into this.”</p><p>Dirk doesn’t say that he won’t lose. He doesn’t say a single word of his own plans, slowly ticking away and solidifying into something desperate, something that just might <em>work</em>, instead. Because why lie, when you can tell the truth and accomplish the same thing?</p><p>And why only have one plan, when you know it’s going to fail? Dirk’s had time to do nothing but think here, and that’s a dangerous thing for him, but having backups was a much better use of time than obsessing over what the fuck John Egbert wants from him.</p><p>(He isn’t sure how likely success is, still. But it’s a sight better with what he’s figured out than with whatever the hell Egbert is trying.)</p><p>“Yeah. Yeah,” Egbert answers. “You’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. Just, like. Remember what we went over. You didn’t have a choice, you did your best to stop it, and it was all you knew.”</p><p>Dirk doesn’t know which of them he’s trying to convince.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*chanting* yesyesyes! I've been excited to post this for AGES, it was one of the first parts I wrote for this story.</p><p>I don't think we need trigger warnings for this chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Here it is.</p><p>John isn’t the one who walks Crocker to the makeshift courtroom- okay, it’s actually just a regular room, but a big one, and almost everyone who’s still on base is here, crowded into chairs and even standing against the walls. There’s two tables facing each other, one long where Rose, Karkat, and Kanaya are already sitting, and a much smaller one that’s obviously for Dirk.</p><p>He’s sitting in the front row when they bring him in, Sollux, who Crocker is looking at in the kind of assessing way that doesn’t necessarily mean trouble, but it means something, and you know what? John doesn’t think he likes that very much. Maybe he’s just never seen a yellowblood like Captor- which is fair, because as far as John knows, there really aren’t any. But if that’s the case, he’s going to be in for a <em>real</em> shock when he gets a look at Karkat. Or, a closer one. Karkat’s looking pretty normal from where John is, a safe distance away in the very front row.</p><p>He offers a thumbs up when Crocker passes him. It goes ignored. Well, whatever. Can’t say that he didn’t try.</p><p>There’s quiet, shuffling, muttering, and John thinks he is just going to lose his goddamn mind if no one starts talking, because he knows they’re talking about Dirk and it’s not good and part of him just wants to jump up and say ‘um, actually, no, stop’, except. He knows they’re right. And he knows that Dirk knows they’re right, too.</p><p>Oh, god, he really, really hopes Rose knows what she’s doing with this, because when she’d suggested it, he’d thought it was the worst idea he’d ever heard. And he’s had a lot of bad ideas himself, he is practically a connoisseur of them. One of them is actually sitting six feet away like he’s totally fine and this is just another day at the office. Which- personally? John thinks is unfair. Why does he have to be the only one sweating bullets about Dirk Crocker? Dirk Crocker should be sweating bullets about himself.</p><p>He settles into his seat like it’s some kind of a throne, like it’s his stupid uncomfortable chair in the Oval Office instead of a plain plastic one in front of a table, and John wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him.</p><p>He doesn’t look repentant, or guilty. He looks remote, detached as ever. He looks like he’s carved from ice and alabaster, and John wants nothing more than to sit next to him and try to soften those edges more. Dirk’s human, and even if he doesn’t believe it himself, even if he doesn’t want to show it- he has to.</p><p>John bites at his lower lip until it’s almost bleeding, and even when the room quiets and Dirk finally looks- nervous, shifting a little in his chair, he doesn’t relax. The nerves don’t suit him. Especially not if they’re genuine.</p><p>And then Rose is standing, and speaking, and the whole thing starts much sooner than John would like. With a whimper, not a bang.</p><p>The trial goes- pretty much as John had thought it would. Which, basically? Fucking badly. Really fucking badly. John stopped biting his nails when he was eighteen, but he’s really, really tempted to start again now, his thumb pressed against his lips. Dirk does what he said he’d do, at least, but it’s not going over well, and John knew it’d be a long shot, he did, but there’s still a knot lodged in his throat that doesn’t leave, not when the whole goddamn laundry list of crimes is read out.</p><p>Privately, John doesn’t think that it’s necessary. Some of them are so obviously contrived that he knows Rose isn’t even the one who put them on the list. Like, business crimes? What the hell are those? It’s definitely not embezzlement, because no one steals from CrockerCorp, and Dirk absolutely wouldn’t have done it, even if he needed to.</p><p>And Dirk is- well. John wants to give him credit for trying. He does. But he’s just <em>saying </em>the words, and it sounds so rehearsed, and is that John’s fault, for making him practice them over and over again? Or would Crocker have done it anyway? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think so. Because as much as he’s saying the words, just looking at him, John can tell that he doesn’t really believe them. He really, really hopes that this is because he knows Dirk Crocker better than anyone else here. He doesn’t think that’s the case, and it sits heavy as a rock in his stomach.</p><p>(And then, as the list drags on, as they get into thorny things like murder, or planning genocide, or a complete disregard for human rights, John’s the one who’s feeling more uncomfortable. He’d known from the start what Dirk Crocker was. He’d known who and what he was getting into bed with, and Crocker had never pretended to be otherwise. But somehow, John had lost sight of all of that along the way, hadn’t he?)</p><p>(These people will never see what John’s seen, when they look at Dirk Crocker, and he wonders if that’s a good thing or not. Because there’s so much more to him than <em>this</em>, but- Well. This is a pretty fucking big part.)</p><p>(And it’s not that John forgave it. He can’t forgive it, not when it’s been everything that he fought against, not when their first meeting was an outright fight that ended with his arm being broken and blood streaming down Crocker’s crisp white shirt and staining it red, with a sword held to John’s throat and the outline of Crocker’s eyes just barely visible through his shades. But he forgot it, and then what does that make him? An idiot, lured in? No, because Dirk had never been the one pretending, or making offers, or- doing anything that John did and called it work.)</p><p>(But maybe, just maybe, he was stupid enough to forget it, and he feels disgusting and awful and guilty all at once, and probably not even for the right reasons.)</p><p>The only thing this is making clear is just how much blood is on his hands, and John can almost feel it sliding slick against his skin, the iron-tang smearing over his face, into his nose and down his throat. He’s suffocating under it, under a phantom kiss of a man who’s sitting there like this trial is just him indulging everyone’s whims, and not a death sentence, and for a second, John <em>hates</em> him for it.</p><p>How dare he come here, and expect mercy, when he doesn’t even know what it means?</p><p>But- no, that’s unfair, isn’t it. He wouldn’t have come, if John hadn’t offered to begin with. If John hadn’t been so stupid about that- thing- growing between them, tentative and unnameable. He hates that Crocker can make him feel this way at all.</p><p>He hates that he’s just sitting there, like it doesn’t <em>matter</em>, that he’s pretending to be just fine when this is probably the most important thing that’s going to decide his stay here. And John hasn’t thought about what happens if it doesn’t work, because he hasn’t let himself. It’d never been an option, he’d thought Rose would’ve figured out <em>some</em> kind of way-</p><p><em>Trust me</em>, she’d said, when pitching the idea, and John did, of course, how could he not?</p><p>He knows <em>exactly</em> what Crocker would say to that. Dirk would probably laugh in his face and call him an idiot, naïve and too-trusting, blindly following, and maybe- maybe he wouldn’t be wrong.</p><p>(It’s always been so easy, to let Rose have all the answers. To let her do the talking, and the convincing, and the dirty work. It’s not that John can’t, or that she’s any less busy than he is, but. He’s always been good at putting on a smile and making people laugh, hasn’t he? He’s the friendly one, the charismatic one, the one that people want to trust, even before he opens his mouth.)</p><p>John bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, and tries not to fidget too much. He’s pretty sure he’d fail, if anyone was looking at him at all. But they’re not. Karkat, Kanaya, Rose- all of them are staring right at Dirk, and he’s looking at them like they’re not even worth his time, exuding the kind of casual arrogance that John’s seen on him less and less, as they met more often, but never fails to make him want to land a fist on the elegant line of his nose.</p><p>John is pretty sure everyone in the room is feeling that way, right about now.</p><p>Part of him wonders why Dirk couldn’t have made it easy for himself, for them, but- well. It’s Dirk. When was he ever going to do something convenient for someone else, if it meant swallowing his massive ego and just, behaving? Never, that’s when. Crockers, they’re all the same like that, selfish down to the core.</p><p>John <em>so</em> badly wants for this to be over. Every second is excruciating- all of Dirk’s glib responses, Rose’s probing questions, Karkat’s <em>snarled</em> and probing questions, the murmuring from behind him just growing and growing like a tsunami, sound filling the air until it feels like he can’t breathe-</p><p>He takes a shuddery breath, anyway. Curls his hands into fists, uncurls them, watches bones shift under skin.</p><p>He has to think about it now, doesn’t he. The <em>what if</em>. If this doesn’t work. What is he, if it doesn’t? A liar? Something inside him squirms at the thought. No, he doesn’t want to be that. His dad would’ve- would’ve hated it. He’d raised John to be better than that, to do what was right, and be kind, and-</p><p>(And oh, but there’s a lump in his throat, as he lets himself think of his dad for the first time in a long, long time. He’s always pushing against it, but whenever he’s stressed, whenever he thinks he’s done something wrong, the first, reflexive thought is <em>Dad wouldn’t have liked that</em>, and it’s sick, how he can’t stop himself from thinking that way, but it’s better than having the same thought lurking around every corner, every decision made.)</p><p>God.</p><p>He squeezes his eyes shut tightly. He can’t think about this now, either. It leaves him feeling empty and exhausted inside, scooped out and raw, and that’s- he can’t be distracted, here. He has to focus, he has to be there for Crocker, because no one else is going to be.</p><p>(And whose fault is that, a snide voice in his head asks him. It sounds suspiciously like Dirk. He ignores it, because he has to.)</p><p>When he opens his eyes again, it’s all gone quiet. Instinctively, he knows that this is it. This is where everything they’ve done has led to, and Dirk’s going to argue his way out of it. Like they’d practiced, like he’s been trying to this whole time, but- better.</p><p>(John doesn’t think about why he’s so sure that Crocker is going to succeed. Is it because he can’t fail? Or because somewhere along the way, John had learned that Dirk Crocker simply <em>doesn’t</em> fail, because it’s never been an option to him?)</p><p>He’s holding his breath, and he barely registers the burn in his chest as Rose straightens up.</p><p>“So, Dirk Crocker, how do you-?”</p><p>“That isn’t my name anymore.” Dirk says, flat as anything. A gasp runs through the crowd at the interruption. It’s rude beyond measure. It should be a death sentence- hell, John’s sure that half the people here want it to be. But he’s not focused on the act so much as what Dirk’s said. It’s not his name, anymore. But, no-</p><p>It is.</p><p>He’s always been a Crocker, how can he be anything else?</p><p>John knows that some part of him was always proud of it, and he’s here, renouncing it, giving that up? It feels like the world is tilting precariously on some kind of axis, the burn in his chest mounting in desperation until he finally reminds himself to suck in a breath. He’s still looking at Dirk, though. Dirk, who’s somehow gotten command of this entire room with a well-placed sentence of five words.</p><p>Whoever said Dave Crocker was the charismatic one had never seen Dirk in action. Devoid of his suits and shades and sword, he ought to be naked and vulnerable. He isn’t, and it unnerves everyone in the room. John fidgets under the table, his fingers toying with the sleeve of his shirt where no one can see. It’s not a trial, not really- there’s no publicity, the evidence is damning, and all of this is happening because John brought him here. He wants to tell Dirk to stop being such a smartass, but that’d be like telling the sky to stop being so blue.</p><p>(He wants to take his face between his hands and kiss that smart mouth senseless, until his lips are kiss-swollen and pink and he stops saying anything other than John’s name, and maybe ‘please’. He wants to deck him, then and there, for sabotaging them this way.)</p><p>But nothing prepares him for what Dirk says next. Nothing <em>can</em>.</p><p>“But, to answer your question- guilty. On all charges.”</p><p>What.</p><p>“What?” The shock ripples through the room, and John feels it like a punch to the chest, the breath knocked right out of him. No. “No-,” he knows he isn’t supposed to speak, or interrupt, but he’s already standing, palms flat on the table as he turns to Dirk.</p><p>Doesn’t he know? They’d spent hours on this, trying to figure out how to make this work, and Dirk’s just going to- ignore all of it, and give up? He’s never given up on anything in his life, John knows that. So why start now?</p><p>“Guilty,” he repeats, and there’s a hint of smug satisfaction to his voice again. It’s absurd, how he still sounds like he has the upper hand. “Of everything. It was me, I did it, I’m a traitor to the human race- but of course that’s only if you want to consider me human at all. I bleed red, but that’s hardly proof of anything these days, isn’t it?</p><p>“I was following orders, I gave orders too, is that what you’d like to hear? I did bad things, and I know what I did, and I know why I did it, and none of those reasons are going to be good enough for you if I presumed to plead otherwise. I’m guilty as sin, and I’m not sorry about it because I wasn’t made to be sorry about anything, so you’d better end this farce and break out the guillotine already. Sending my head to Mother dearest as a lovely cake topper ought to be adequate as a message, no?”</p><p>It’s not a concession. This- this is a fucking <em>dare</em>, this is a gamble that’s worse than anything Crocker had ever done, John’s pretty sure. He already knows there’s some people who’d want it, John’s read the accusation in his gaze before, when Crocker thinks he’s not looking. He’s so much more honest, when he thinks John isn’t looking. But he’d dismissed it as paranoia, as, well. Crocker being himself. He <em>hadn’t</em> thought the man would just sit here and basically tell double dog dare them to try and kill him.</p><p>John feels sick to his stomach just thinking about it. They wouldn’t- Rose, she wouldn’t. He hazards a glance at her, but she isn’t even looking in his direction, just at Dirk. And Dirk’s looking back at her, like there isn’t anyone in the room even worth his time.</p><p>And they-</p><p>They look alike, John realizes. They <em>do.</em> Rose is shorter, curvier. Older, John knows, although there’s not a single wrinkle to be found anywhere on her. But their eyes are the same shape, the cut of their cheekbones set high. Dirk has more freckles smattered along his cheeks (and down the slope of his shoulders, his chest, right to his back and thighs, this John knows, he’d count every one if he could), but Rose’s skin is porcelain smooth and perfect.</p><p>Dirk’s never taken his gloves off with John around. Rose always wears thick bracelets, close-fitted to her wrists. Their hair is the same exact color. They both have a single dimple in their left cheek, though John has only ever seen Dirk’s in pictures.</p><p>He doesn’t understand.</p><p>“Everyone out,” Rose says. Her voice is quiet, but it cuts through the noise of the room with all the authority she has. John is already on his feet, but he can’t make himself move. He can’t just <em>leave</em>. “I’ll speak to him. Alone,” she adds, with a significant look at the two trolls sitting next to her. Karkat, predictably, looks really fucking upset about this- but he was upset to see Crocker here to begin with, enough that he’d shouted at John more than usual when the news had been broken to him. Kanaya is much harder to read, she simply bends to press a kiss to Rose’s forehead before leaving, but the faint glow to her skin is enough for John to tell she’s not exactly happy about the situation, either.</p><p>He’s numb as he’s ushered out of the room along with everyone else, because it’s dead silent and then in an uproar, and the last thing he sees is Rose approaching Crocker’s table, and dragging a chair over to sit right across from it, serene as ever, no matter that she’s right within arm’s reach and Crocker could just reach across the table and kill her, or worse, or she could be taking matters into her own hands, too-</p><p>But none of that happens, and the last glimpse he gets before the doors close is her pleased smile, and Dirk leaning forward, hands steepled carefully under his chin. The last thing he sees before the door shuts right in his face is Dirk leaning forward, intent, that same smirk on his lips.</p><p>His mouth moves; John can’t trace the shape of what he’s saying.</p><p>The image stays with him, even as he stands outside that door, waiting.</p><p>They looked like two halves of a matched set, John can’t help but think, almost hysterical. Two queens on a chessboard, facing each other down. He remembers that there used to be a board in Crocker’s office; he really, really wishes he knew whether or not Crocker played, because that would probably give <em>some</em> fucking insight as to what the hell he thinks he’s doing here.</p><p>John’d thought that he had been listening, that they were going to do it. Sure, the preparation wasn’t much, given the short notice, but they needed Dirk, whether they wanted to admit that or not, and, well. He really had thought Crocker was trusting him with this.</p><p>Guess that was wrong.</p><p>He folds himself into a chair in the outside of the room, distantly registers the crowd lingering before starting to drift away, clearly bored with the proceedings. He waits until it’s only him and Karkat and Kanaya, and he’s just not in the mood to deal with anything Karkat says, so when the loud troll opens his mouth, John snaps at him before he means to.</p><p>And instantly feels fucking bad, because Karkat is- okay, they’re not going to be best friends, but they are <em>friends</em>, and Karkat doesn’t deserve to get snapped at because John’s bent out of shape because of Dirk fucking Crocker.</p><p>“We will see you later,” Kanaya says, and she stands gracefully. One of her hands is on Karkat’s shoulder, to either steady him or to stop him from just grabbing his chair and beating John to death with it, probably.</p><p>“Okay,” he tells her. And then, glancing at Karkat: “Sorry. I’m- bluh, I hate waiting for this kind of thing, and they’ve been in there for ages! What could they even be talking about?”</p><p>“Do you think I fucking know, Egbert? Because believe me, I’d love some answers to that myself, except all you fucking hornless freaks only ever talk in fucking circles around each other like this is some special version of hell where it’s all bulge jokes and no one knows how to fucking socialize,” Karkat snarls, jabbing a finger his way. John’s antsy enough that he has to bite back his response, before he snaps at Karkat again. Maybe he shouldn’t have felt so bad about it in the first place.</p><p>“Whatever it is, I am sure it is of the utmost importance. And that Rose will fill us in. When need be. She can be quite mysterious when she wishes,” Kanaya says, almost wistfully. Gross. “We are going to get some rest. Karkat is always cranky when he does not get enough rest before nightfall, and it is probably a good idea for someone to see the two of us around. You should get some rest, too. When you can.”</p><p>“Yeah,” John says, like a liar. “I will! Don’t worry about it, seriously. I’m not going to be passing out in this chair waiting for them, that’d be dumb. I’ll just- give it another hour, and then go to sleep, okay?”</p><p>Kanaya purses her lips, obviously not believing him at all, but thankfully, she decides not to push on it today. Karkat just stomps off, arms crossed in front of his chest, shoulders hunched.</p><p>She follow, and John’s left alone.</p><p>He must fall asleep at some point, because when he opens his eyes again, there’s no light shining through the crack under the door, and everything’s dead silent around him.</p><p>He gets up in a hurry, nearly knocking his chair over, and- okay, he’s not running, or sprinting, he’s just trying to wake up faster. He has to find Dirk.</p><p>---</p><p>Dirk nearly collapses the second that he gets into his room- well, cell, but it’s easier to consider it a room for now, just a little lie to prop up his psyche while it copes with the reality of his situation. He doesn’t collapse, of course; not even alone is he going to allow himself that kind of indignity. Instead, he presses his back to the cold wall, lets it seep through his thin, shitty, polyester-blend shirt, nondescript as anything, and sinks down to the floor. The surface of the wall is textured, it rasps against his skin in a slow drag. The discomfort is familiar, grounding.</p><p>He has all of ten seconds to himself, to let go, to breathe and marshal his wildling thoughts into some semblance of order.</p><p>And then John Egbert bursts into the room and scatters them as neatly as overturning a chessboard. Dirk simply looks at him from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. It is not the position he’d like to be in to receive any kind of guest, no matter that Egbert is technically the host and he the hostage, and Dirk stifles the instinctual feeling of being at a disadvantage. Of course he’s at a disadvantage. He’s here.</p><p>He’s too drained for their usual argument, but Dirk opens his mouth anyway, intent on at least putting up a front.</p><p>“What brings you here, Mr. Egbert?” he asks, his voice pointed and polite. The perfect tone for disarming someone who came to fight- and John very clearly did, with the thunderous look on his face. Dirk is, admittedly, always rather pleased to be the one who puts it there. Regardless of how very little he wants to deal with this right now.</p><p>“You-, what <em>was </em>that out there?” John finally bursts out. His hands are curled into fists, and his shoulders are tense, and he’s taken four long strides towards Dirk. That’s all it takes for him to cross the length of his current accommodations. Dirk lets out a soft breath, and very pointedly does not stand up, despite how much he hates being towered over.</p><p>He does not feel cornered. He does not feel threatened. This is not Dave (nor Mother, the traitor inside him whispers), this is John Egbert, and despite any kind of disadvantage, he knows how to deal with John Egbert. Nonviolently, of course. He isn’t going to undo all the work he’s just put in.</p><p>“What was what?” He raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“You know what, Crocker, don’t play dumb. It’s never suited you anyway. I’m talking about the- the pleading guilty, what the fuck <em>was that?</em>” There’s a lot of hand gestures that go along with that, and Dirk tracks them from behind his shades. Egbert looks like he’s distressed, more so than Dirk’s ever seen him. Dirk isn’t entirely sure he likes this.</p><p>“Ah, that. I took matters into my own hands. You seem rather upset by that,” he says, as blandly as he can make it. Which is very- Dirk is exceptionally good at sounding mild and polite, even when all he wants to do is bare his teeth and shove all occupants of the room out so he can have some peace. But that isn’t a luxury he’s ever really had, and he isn’t interested in a physical fight with John right now.</p><p>“You just, threw away all the work we did. Of course I’m upset! You didn’t even know if you’d survive, and the whole point of all that planning was to make sure you did!” The thing is that Egbert does genuinely sound upset, but Dirk is willing to bet that it has considerably more to do with Dirk not listening than it does to do with the consequences of failure.</p><p>“It was a calculated risk,” he says simply. “My chances were higher if I laid all my cards on the table. I am many things, Mr. Egbert, but I am not insane, and to lie in front of irrefutable evidence to the contrary is the act of a madman. I judged that it would be more palatable if I showed that I understood everything that I did- or at least more shocking.” And the shocked expressions had been a transient satisfaction on their own, he’s willing to admit. “They had already made up their mind about me, but they were expecting me to deny everything and insist that I had been right until the very end.”</p><p>“You weren’t going to do that, though. You were going to tell the truth, that you had to do it, and that you were willing to make up for it,” John frowns harder, and Dirk isn’t sure whether he wants to kiss it off his mouth or slap it off.</p><p>“And it would have seemed incredibly insincere. I am a sword, they know that now and they knew that before. What would I pretend to be? I am nothing but a parer of potentials, I excise infinities. I’m a weapon, I cut, and I take pride in doing well what I was made to do, if not always the result. I don’t deny that I’m dangerous. But now they understand that there isn’t a hand on the hilt, and that their hands can be. I am worth keeping alive in that they can use me- and, more to the point, it was hardly the gamble that you seem to think it was. Of course they weren’t going to kill me. You’d torture me first, to get the information you wanted, but if you went about it that way, I wouldn’t have said a word.”</p><p>Egbert looks like he’s going to turn green. Dirk presses on.</p><p>“I knew that she needed me on her side more than I needed her. It was a calculated risk.”</p><p>“It was still stupid,” Egbert insists. Dense as ever. “You didn’t know that it was going to work, and- and you could have <em>died</em>, Jesus Christ, why doesn’t that bother you? I <em>know</em> you don’t have an actual death wish, so, uh, what the fuck?”</p><p>So therein lies the rub, does it? But it’s an easy enough question to answer, and one whose answer he can make hurt. Egbert acting as if he cares, as if this matters at all, is grating on his nerves.</p><p>“My own sister wasn’t going to kill me, not after going to all that trouble to ensure I ended up here alive to begin with.” Dirk deliberately doesn’t look at John as he says it, keeps his voice flat and disinterested as he studies a crack in the wall and imagines it spiralling further and further, microscopic fractures that no one can see. His eyesight is better than most, but with the shades sitting on his face as just plain plastic now, there’s no cameras to bring it into magnification.</p><p>“Your- what?” John stumbles on the words, clearly surprised. He’d known she wouldn’t publicize the fact, but he doubts that John knowing would really change anything. The fact that John either hasn’t quite figured it out himself or is in some state of denial about it is interesting, though. And it shows him where to push.</p><p>“My sister,” Dirk repeats, finally tilting his head so Egbert knows he’s looking at him. “Rose Lalonde, formerly Rosalind Crocker, formerly RC-XX01-120485. Current leader of the Resistance against Mother, previous High Mirthful Priestess, whose greasepaint inspired thousands and struck fear into the heart of more, and whose laugh was like the cracking of stone.” He pauses, for effect. “She was in charge of the clowns.</p><p>“How she kept them in line while she was so young, I’ve no idea, but from what I gathered before, she was quite good at it. Of course, she wasn’t good at very much else, so Mother was always disappointed in her that way.” Dirk lets a faint smirk tug at his lips, deliberately bitter. “I suppose she’s found her calling now, and traded in one cult for another, and this one more centered around her.”</p><p>Egbert still looks surprised, and Dirk would find it deeply satisfying, if he didn’t want anything other than to be <em>alone</em> right now. This isn’t enough, he has to push more.</p><p>“Oh, you didn’t know? That’s fucking precious, isn’t it, your dear leader herself Crocker stock,” he says, and there’s a sneer in his voice. Each of these words has to hurt, and Dirk knows that they will. “I’m sure her reasons for not telling you are obvious, and- oh, don’t feel too torn up about it, Mr. Egbert. I didn’t know either, not for certain, until I saw her. And you didn’t have a single clue until you saw <em>us</em>. That kind of family resemblance is <em>terribly</em> hard to conceal, no matter how you try. Of course, I’ve no idea if the rest of the people there noticed, having never seen me up close or heard me speak that often. But you did, didn’t you? I wonder how she’ll deal with that.”</p><p>“It- doesn’t matter. She chose to leave. She took Roxy, and she left,” John says. His voice doesn’t shake either, Dirk has to admit that it’s impressive, perhaps more so than the fact that John buys into all of this. “That’s what matters. She decided she’d had enough of all that bullshit, and she stopped buying into it, and she’s dedicated every single moment of her life afterwards to fighting it.”</p><p>“And yet if she and I had switched positions, I doubt you’d see her in such a benign light,” Dirk says, raising an eyebrow. Anger burns bright-hot in his chest, a collapsing star, before he crumples it out as easily as extinguishing a candle flame. There’s no sense at all to begrudging Lalonde her goodwill; of course her lackeys will defend her to their deaths. And John- no, Egbert- has never been anything but forthright about what he thinks of Dirk. “But it’s a much harder cognitive adjustment to make, when you can make excuses about how young she was, and how she never did anything. You can romanticize how she ‘saw the light’, when she saw that child all you want, if it helps you cope. Redemption in the innocence of a babe, now that’s quite the trope. No one could fail to shed a tear at it.”</p><p>“Cope? What would I need to cope with? And what the hell would you know about coping, or about doing the right thing?” There it is, that nasty side of Egbert that he likes to pretend isn’t there. Dirk does so love drawing that spite out of him, and here, it’ll suit his purposes. It doesn’t matter that the words hurt; they’re true, and that’s all there is to it. The right thing is a moral imperative that other people have; he’s only ever known to do one thing. But for John <em>fucking</em> Egbert to sit there and claim he doesn’t know how to cope with anything, as if Dirk has had an absolutely perfect life (and oh, how filthy and treasonous that thought is, that he hasn’t been gifted and blessed in any way, that what Mother did to shape him could have possibly been wrong)- no.</p><p>“For all the time we’ve been forced to spend together, you still know nothing,” Dirk says, his voice dead. He sees Egbert try and fail to suppress a shudder. Good. There’s no need to pretend he isn’t disgusted, anymore. Dirk looks through him rather than at him, and for a second he can’t breathe because there’s phantom hands around his throat, and pink claws holding his eyelids open as he sits in front of a too bright screen, and his eyes burn and burn, and-</p><p>No. Not now. Dirk squeezes his eyes shut tightly behind his shades, and it grounds him. He’s not there anymore. And he has to finish this.</p><p>“But you’re right, of course. I don’t know anything about morals or doing the right thing. Your desire to keep me alive so you could continue to get information out of me was perfectly understandable, but as soon as I set foot in that room and saw her, I knew that it wouldn’t have worked. So I took matters into my own hands, it’s as simple as that.”</p><p>“You pleaded guilty, in a trial! They could’ve killed you, how could you put yourself in a situation like that?” Egbert asks, incredulous like he has no right to be.</p><p>Dirk simply stares him down for a long moment, and waits for the ridiculousness of that particular statement to sink in. If they wanted him dead, he would have been dead before Egbert even led him within fifty miles of this place. He’d half-expected it, really.</p><p>The moment he sees John’s face blanch in embarrassment and realization, he laughs. It’s not a particularly pleasant sound.</p><p>“It’s not- I didn’t-,”</p><p>Dirk lets him flounder for a few more moments before he slides the knife in. It could be called mercy, if he’d ever learned what that was. If Egbert wants to believe that he isn’t responsible for this, that’s perfectly fine. Dirk knew what he was doing when he said he was guilty, and he’s willing to give John the benefit of the doubt that this hadn’t been his plan all along. At worst, he was a pawn for Lalonde, and Dirk can hardly fault him for that, not when he knows his own place as one. First for Mother, and now for the prodigal sister. How he’s fallen.</p><p>“Listen, Mr. Egbert. My own idiocy is what landed me in this situation,” Dirk cuts in smoothly. Relief and the desire to argue more both war on Egbert’s face, but Dirk isn’t going to give him the change for that. “That being said, I’ve made promises that I intend to keep in order to ensure my continued survival. Congratulations, your part in this façade is over, and you can consider this a victory. You’ve got what you wanted, haven’t you? I’m here, and not with Mother, and I came of my own volition. Your honeypot mission, extended as it was, happened to be a complete success. You did it, you seduced me right into the cell you’ve always thought I belonged in, if not to the executioner’s block I’m sure you had been hoping for.</p><p>“I doubt Lalonde has any further use for you in this matter, so you’d best be off to do whatever it is she thinks necessary. Maybe she’ll have you go after Dave next, hm? Good luck with that one, he sleeps around considerably more than I do and has zero problem gutting his partners post-coitus, but I’m sure if you managed me, he’ll be a piece of cake. Godspeed,” he says, and adds a little smirk for good measure, the one that he knows John absolutely despises. “Maybe whoever is assigned to deal with me next will be cuter.”</p><p>John walks right out of the room, but the victory feels more hollow than it ought to.</p><p>Dirk ignores that entirely. He’s won, for whatever definition of winning still applies to him in this situation. Egbert won’t be bothering him anymore, and Dirk tells himself that it’s a good thing.</p><p>Even when he manages to finally fall into a fitful sleep, he isn’t sure he’s convinced himself of it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oh, did you think this was going to be a classic redemption arc?</p><p>&gt;;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, there's no denying that they're /talking./</p><p>This one's also pretty heavy on my headcanons for the quadrants, so. Y'know. Take that as you will.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>To her credit, Rose gives him three whole days of peace to just process what happened before she actually shows up at his door.</p><p>Oh, he knows it’s probably because she’s been busy getting more information out of Crocker, or handling business, or doing- things that he’s ignoring himself because he doesn’t want to, because ‘the executioner’s block I’m sure you’d been hoping for’ keeps echoing in his head and he doesn’t know how to get rid of it, or make sense of anything, let alone work.</p><p>“John,” she says, and now he knows why her tone is so frustratingly even all the time, right? And who she sounds like? Or- who <em>he</em> sounds like? Except he doesn’t think any of those things about Rose, and even if she didn’t tell him. “Are you alright?”</p><p>“Am I- no, of course I’m not okay, what, am I supposed to be here pretending that everything is perfectly fine and that it’s all good and I’m going to just- go back there, and, and <em>find things</em>? Rose, I just found out that you’re his <em>sister</em>, half the people in there did the second they saw you two staring at each other, of fucking course I’m not okay-,” he’s breathing too fast, he knows, but he can’t stop himself. “I don’t- you didn’t tell me, did you even tell anyone? Or were we just meant to never figure it out? God, I know everyone here has a good reason to hate Betty Crocker, but mommy issues really aren’t what I was expecting yours to be! You were supposed to be above all that, you were supposed to be <em>more,</em> instead you’re- just like them? What? Seriously, Rose, what the fuck?</p><p>“And- and, you’ve been <em>lying</em>, too, oh my god-,” he breaks off, his eyes wide with disbelief. “All that stuff you said about CrockerCorp ruining your family, and your parents being dead- like. That’s the perfect tragic backstory? But it’s not like anyone would’ve ever called you out on it, I mean, that’s so shitty to do! You’ve been lying this entire fucking time, Christ, Rose- I don’t even- who <em>are </em>you? Do I even know you? How can I trust what you’re doing?”</p><p>It just comes pouring out of him, and he’s so angry he doesn’t know what to do. All those hours wasted to try and figure out how to defend him, all that time spent thinking that Rose was just as infallible as she painted herself to be, that she was somehow better than everyone else. That she had been working on inside sources to the entire Crocker operation for years, instead of being one of them herself.</p><p>But she’d left, John reminds himself. She’d left, and there’s no way he can doubt how dedicated she is to bringing the entire empire crashing to the ground. Except for how he does. John looks at her, and he knows he looks as desperate as he feels. He needs her to give him a reason- any reason- to believe him.</p><p>“You can trust what I’m doing because you can trust what I’ve done,” she says softly. Rose holds his gaze evenly, and he hates how calm she is, how she can just sit there, stone-faced, as he says this shit to her. It reminds him so much of Dirk, even if she doesn’t have the same sharp edges to her. “You are right, when you say that I ought to have told you. Really. I had considered it, many times. I didn’t think you would react poorly- rather, I thought you would get over it, that you’d accept it as the past being the past. If it were on my own terms, I would’ve explained better, but I could never be sure. And it is a secret for a reason.” Her voice shifts, darkening. “I don’t know that I would trust everyone else I work with to know this secret, and to not leave. And our numbers…”</p><p>She trails off, a distant look on her face. John understands that logic, at least. He does. They can’t afford to lose anyone, not right now. It doesn’t make him feel any better.</p><p>“You should have told me.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“You’re not sorry, are you?”</p><p>“The thing about being a leader, John, is that you can never be sorry.”</p><p>“That’s not true. It’s not- hard, to apologize. And you haven’t even apologized, either! Don’t think I didn’t notice all that.”</p><p>“Spending time with Dirk has made you a lot more observant, hasn’t it?” she asks, and even though her tone is gentle, teasing, it still cuts him right to the bone, and he can’t respond. It all comes back to him, doesn’t it? Dirk fucking Crocker. If they hadn’t kept meeting, if John had just- kept his mouth shut, or not let his dumb empathy get ahead of him, or just plain not slept with the man at all-</p><p>Things would be different.</p><p>He’d be different.</p><p>He doesn’t know what to think about that- that Crocker shaped him in any way. He hates it, he wants to march right up to him and punch him in his stupid smug face and then shake him and ask what he was <em>thinking</em>, why he’d do that, <strike>why he never said anything when they were supposed to be in this together</strike>.</p><p>“It’s made me very aware of when people are being slippery, evasive dicks,” he mutters instead. “Not that you’re a dick. You’re just-,”</p><p>“Slippery and evasive?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “I understand why you’d be angry, John, and I’m not going to deny that I deserve it. But it’s interesting how you downplay the changes. In both of you.”</p><p>“What do you mean, both of us?” John doesn’t really know what to think about the fact that <em>he </em>might have shaped Crocker just as much. Sure, the proof is there plain and simple in the fact that Dirk Crocker left and came with him. But there’s still a part of him that wants to be suspicious, even after everything. Even after the trial, even after being <em>sure</em> he hadn’t had any trackers, being sure that he wasn’t going to try anything on Rose.</p><p>(He hadn’t been worried about Dirk trying anything on <em>him</em>- but he hasn’t been for a while now. He doesn’t understand that, either; when did he start trusting Dirk Crocker of all people not to kill him, to have his back in the middle of enemy territory half the time, or even in neutral ground? It doesn’t make sense, none of it does.)</p><p>“Oh, John,” Rose says, soft. Pitying, more so than he really is capable of dealing with right about now. Her palm presses lightly against his cheek, the same weird gesture she always uses. John sighs and lists into the touch. It relaxes him, though it’s more of a product of habit than anything else.</p><p>(Okay, fine, she’s conditioned him into it a little bit, but he can’t let on that he <em>knows</em> that, else she’ll be all smug about it.)</p><p>“No, don’t say it like that. I know I’m just being dumb,” he mumbles. All the anger from earlier is gone, and now he’s just tired and hollow and his eyes hurt. “You’re not one of them. This doesn’t change anything. I just- I don’t know.”</p><p>“We both know that’s not what this is really about, though.” Her thumb smooths against the arch of his cheek. “I saw how you froze up when I mentioned him.”</p><p>“’m not compromised,” he says. Stubborn.</p><p>“Of course not,” Rose answers. “There’s hardly any room for that with him here, after all. And- you’re no more compromised than I am, when it comes to him. You know that I have no room to talk about it.”</p><p>“You didn’t sleep with him.”</p><p>“You didn’t give the order to bring him here, when you found out. By any means possible. I knew what I was asking you to do.”</p><p>“And- I knew what I was doing! Or, I thought I did. Now, it’s just- ugh. He’s in my head and I <em>hate</em> it, you know that?” John pauses, pursing his lips at her for a moment. “Are you where he gets that from?”</p><p>It’s the best he can do for levity, and John’s so relieved that it actually works- shock flits across Rose’s expression for a moment, and then it fights with a slightly petulant look, before she finally just sighs deeply.</p><p>“I’m better at it by far,” is what she settles on saying. But the mood’s lightened, he can see it in the way she relaxes. “And far less nefarious. Unless you’re someone trying to make eyes at my daughter, in which case, the needles can and will come out.”</p><p>“Wow. Clearly it’s a good thing I never had a crush on her,” he jokes.</p><p>“She’s not your type,” Rose says, like she knows what his type is at all. Dirk Crocker is- an exception, not the rule! You can’t tell someone’s type just from one person they slept with and have…weird, complicated feelings about. At least John doesn’t think so.</p><p>“Are you just saying that because you would actually perish if I asked her out?”</p><p>“No.” She answers so quickly it really has to be a yes.</p><p>“Wow. If CrockerCorp knew that Roxy dating was the way to off you, she’d be beating off robot suitors with a broom.”</p><p>“I’d be more likely to allow the robots, at least they know how to <em>listen</em>. Human men are- stupid. You’re all stupid.”</p><p>“You know what? I want you to understand that I’m objecting to that but only on principle because what’s going on really does not leave me any room to talk about that,” John says. He glances down, fiddling with the hem of his T-shirt.</p><p>“Being in a relationship with him and not realizing it at all? Yes, I’d say that gives you negative room to talk about how intelligent men are, especially emotionally speaking.”</p><p>The thing is, John understands that Rose is joking, or at least trying to. But her words hit him like a brick fucking wall, because- since when was that a relationship? They’re not dating, they’re not together; they never were. They never could be, no matter how much-</p><p>“John,” Rose says, firm, cutting through his thoughts easily. “I don’t think this is a conversation you need to have with me, but I can provide some background, if you would like.”</p><p>“Yes.” That single word is all he can manage. He’s not- they’re not. They weren’t. Even if either of them had <em>wanted</em> that, Dirk isn’t capable. He’s said as much himself, and John knows better than to get his hopes up too much.</p><p>“Trolls have a different romance system as compared to ours. It’s divided into four, each of which are considered their own relationship. Black, red, pale, and ashen.”</p><p>“Ugh. Why are they colors?” John asks, blank. Because that’s really all it is- sure, they’re familiar ones, he’s heard Crocker mention them in passing, but never in relation to himself. “And- why does there need to be four? That seems excessive?”</p><p>“Maybe to you. But you should remember that this is what we were raised and socialized in, and as far as functionality goes, it does help…sort relationships. Of course, as humans, we lack some of the biological cues- I’ve been informed that there’s certain pheromones involved, and there’s of course going to be certain implications depending on tone and position on the hemospectrum, and-,” Rose pauses, sighs. “Never mind all that. I can see your eyes glazing right over.”</p><p>"What? No they're not. Keep going with the, uh. Colors."</p><p>"Of course," Rose says, but with the smooth smile that tells him she isn't fooled in the slightest. It was worth a try, though. "As I was saying. Red and pale deal with more positive emotions, whereas pitch and ashen deal with the negative. Red- or matespritship- is actually the closest to the human concept of romantic love, if that helps, though it's based on pity rather than affection as humans perceive it. So to say. Alternian society was very...different. Brutal. The most poignant of gestures would have been to spare a life of someone weaker out of pity, rather than rip their throat out."</p><p>"Wow. That's- really fucked up," John shifts, somewhat uncomfortable. It's hard to picture Rose really buying into any of this, but- she hasn't really dated, either? Not that he knows of. Not that he thinks there hasn't ever been anyone interested in her, but if she's socialized to believe this and stick to it, it'd make sense.</p><p>That, or she's just really, really busy as a mother and the leader of a whole Resistance and has no time to date, which also would make a lot of sense. Bluh.</p><p>"Is it? I think it's beautiful. Other gestures of affection pale in comparison; if someone pities you, they won't kill you, and you can trust that. In a place where softer emotions are ruthlessly ground down, where the inhabitants cut their teeth on viciousness and violence, what purer expression of love is there than to look after someone or be looked after, when needed? And even when not?”</p><p>John doesn’t have anything to say to that- she’s right, but he’d never thought about it like that.</p><p>“That’s. Yeah. I guess it makes sense,” he finally says. “Is that really what you were brought up with?”</p><p>“It was,” Rose confirms. “Not that I mind it, of course- it may have been the least objectionable part of my childhood, and the system in theory is excellent. In practice, with what she said she did to twist the concupiscent quadrants…that, I find much worse.”</p><p>“The concup- what?” John gives up trying to pronounce it, and decidedly seizes a topic of conversation that’s not proposed slurry factories that make everyone (sane) who hears about them want to vomit. He can’t handle thinking about that right now.</p><p>“Concupiscent,” she repeats. John knows that she knows he’s trying to guide the subject back towards weird troll romance, and he knows that she’s letting him. He’s grateful for it, just like he’s grateful to her for giving him the time to be a dumb baby and freak out over this. He won’t push for too much longer, though. He can’t. “Referring to the quadrants with a sexual component. So, red, similar to human love. And black, or pitch, is somewhere between the concept of hatesex, and an extremely potent archrivalry. Just as humans distinguish between platonic and romantic love, there’s a difference between romantic and platonic hate.”</p><p>“O…kay,” John says slowly, trying to wrap his head around it. He suspects that this is the relationship that he didn’t know about, which- okay, how was he even supposed to know about it? No one ever sat down and explained troll romance to him, even if there are trolls around. A specific troll who is very obsessed with romance. But John ignores Vantas a <em>lot</em>, he doesn’t think he can be blamed for this.</p><p>“Kismesissitude is the black quadrant, and rather than being based on positive emotions, it’s based on the negative.”</p><p>“Especially hate,” John prompts her. He tries not to frown, though. “But I don’t- I know you’re getting at that being the one that I didn’t know about, but. I don’t hate anyone, not really? I mean, yes, I hate the Batterwitch, but we all hate her. It’s such a weird concept.”</p><p>“Pitch hate is different, believe me,” Rose says, wry. “But it’s good to know that you have an example of more platonic hatred for comparison. If matespritship is meant to be a comfort, and is based on pity, your kismesis would instead spur you onwards to be better, to bring yourself up to their level solely to best them. The negative emotions are there, yes, but for it to be functioning, you need to be equals in some way. It doesn’t always start as outright antipathy, of course, as with all emotions there is an ebb and flow to it. But there is always annoyance, and frustration, and the drive to make them see things your way. The drive to make them better, just so you can be all the more satisfied beating them again.”</p><p>She looks at him too knowingly. John’s mouth is suddenly dry.</p><p>“A kismesis is meant to be as much of a life partner as a matesprit, you see, when it’s well-balanced. They will show you the truths of yourself that you might not want to look at, all the ugly, hated parts you’d rather not think about, or pretend don’t exist. And they’ll <em>make</em> you do something about them, and this makes you a better person overall. It’s very antagonistic, but when it works, it works,” Rose finishes. Almost wistfully, John notes.</p><p>“You say that like you have one,” he settles on saying. Because what the fuck else is he meant to do? Part of his brain is still caught on ‘equals’ and ‘making them admit you’re right’ and ‘making them better just to be happier beating them down.’</p><p>“I don’t,” Rose says, simply. “I did have my fair share of pitch crushes, when I was younger- one of which did involve into a fling, but it was hardly anything to write home about. It wasn’t particularly romantic, and the black feelings vanished rather quickly afterwards. Unsurprising, really.”</p><p>“Is it?”</p><p>“If you think of it in the admittedly reductionist and human way of viewing The One, as in the one you’re meant to marry, or your soulmate, then. No, it isn’t,” she says, after a moment of thinking. “Yes, it sounds like the antithesis of what a soulmate ought to be, but the pitch feelings required for a lasting blackrom aren’t as common as you might think.”</p><p>“True love, meet true hate,” John mumbles, a little weakly. “I still don’t hate him, though. Not right now.”</p><p>Rose is quiet for a long moment.</p><p>“Things are quite different now,” she finally tells him. “I really do wish you’d listened to Karkat when he was talking about all this, you know. It would have saved you all this grief.”</p><p>“Would it have?” John asks. There’s a bitter note to his voice, and he doesn’t like that it’s there, but. He can’t help it. “I still don’t know if that’s what it was, if he even took it seriously like that, or if it was just- a fling. I don’t know which is worse, to be honest. All listening to Karkat would have done is…probably get him weirdly involved in it.”</p><p>A ghost of a smile crosses Rose’s face. “This is still a conversation you ought to have with him, though. He’s been moved, but just to the next floor over for more space.”</p><p>Part of him isn’t ready for this, but that part of him never will be. John doesn’t like this type of confrontation, he never has, and with things feeling so precarious between them (is this why they have been? Why Dirk took matters into his own hands? John still doesn’t know, but it certainly would explain why he was so stubborn about ignoring John’s advice), he’s not sure it’s a good idea. But then he thinks about what Crocker would say, if he knew that John was hiding away in his room, having a crisis. Sulking, he would probably call it, and sneer something about grown men not throwing whiny pissbaby tantrums. John wonders for a split-second if he’d think it was pathetic, and then remembers that pathetic isn’t a bad thing for trolls, and- ugh. This is complicated.</p><p>But even the imagined scorn is enough to get him standing up.</p><p>“I’m going to go find him. You’re right, as always,” he says, laughing a little, though the sound is hollow with nerves. “Not that you don’t have the answers yourself, because somehow you always do, but. This is something the two of us need to talk about, even if it’s probably going to go terribly.”</p><p>Rose’s smile is approving as John jams his feet into a pair of shoes and grabs the key to his room.</p><p>(If it’s still a shade smug, like she knows what made him decide to get up and get this over with in the first place, well. He ignores that completely. All of Rose’s smiles are smug, after all.)</p><hr/><p>His days have always been strictly regimented, ruthlessly scheduled for efficiency and improvement, and no more rest than was physically necessary to keep him alive.</p><p>Now, things are different, and Dirk languishes in boredom at the beck and call of his dearest, should-be-dead sister, who only seeks him out via a no doubt long grapevine of stone-faced or sneering guards who deliver questions and answers and take notes. Not even the courtesy to see him in person, but he shouldn’t have expected more from her.</p><p>Granted, it’s only been three days, counted only by the meals delivered (nine, all of them pitiful, and who eats breakfast, anyway?), but he’s hardly being put to good use as an informant. The inefficiency is painful; he has no idea how this entire barely-organization has ended up such a thorn in his side. Or, had ended up as a thorn in his side. He supposes it’s not anymore, and the thought knocks at the hollowness in his chest, rattling there for a moment.</p><p>Egbert it still upset with him, too. He could apologize, say all the right things to smooth it over, couldn’t he? It isn’t as if there’s much to forgive in this case, or as if Egbert is really going to be bothered for all that long. They’ve said much, much worse to one another before- but that was always par for the course, with how things were. Poking at bruises just to feel something, digging nails into sore, bleeding wounds. Breaking bones again to set them properly. Dirk wraps his arms around himself and lets out a breath.</p><p>He doesn’t miss him. That’s absurd. That would be absurd. He doesn’t even want to see Egbert, frankly; that would complicate things more than they need to be.</p><p>Except the footsteps in front of his cell say otherwise, and Dirk looks up to see, well. Who else, but the one he doesn’t want to? Karmic justice, perhaps. Or just the universe shitting in his dinner once more.</p><p>“Speak of the devil,” he mutters, mostly to himself, and then raises his voice and straightens up, folding his hands in his lap. “You look absolutely terrible.” He could pretend he’s in his office again, that this is Egbert once more barging in unexpectedly after hammering away at the defenses Dirk has left a small gap in for him. But Dirk has never been one for that kind of indulgent self-deception; he’s firmly rooted in the reality of the bars between them, the thin mattress he’s currently sitting on, and the terrible polyester of the clothes he’s been shoved into.</p><p>“So do you,” Egbert shoots back. But there’s nothing of their banter from before behind it, either. Dirk was right not to miss him, or any of it. There’s no use clinging to lies.</p><p>“Except I have an excuse, what with being a prisoner,” Dirk points out. “What’s yours?”</p><p>Egbert scowls, expressive as always, and rubs at his jaw. He’s unshaven, his hair lank and messy, dark circles under his eyes. His glasses are slipping down his nose some. It’s the kind of sight that should have Dirk feeling nothing but disgust- he’s never enjoyed sloppiness of any kind, and appearances are no exception, for all that Dave and Mother were always the ones to be more eccentric in their sartorial choices.</p><p>“Been doing some thinking,” Egbert finally tells him.</p><p>“That would explain why you look like hell, but not why you’re still coherent and without steam coming from your ears,” Dirk answers simply, though he doesn’t bother with any cutting tones just yet. It’s good to not have to mind his manners; with the other scant few visitors he’s had, he’d known not to get mouthy. Best not to provoke people who could spit in his food. Well, he’s sure they’re already doing that, but they could be putting something much worse in there is the point. With John, well. He knows precisely where he stands, and that’s nowhere at all.</p><p>“God, shut up. It was a lot, okay?” A pause. “When were you going to tell me that we were together,” John says, and anything that Dirk was about to answer just withers and dies in his throat. His thoughts come to a screeching halt.</p><p>This is not what he thought would happen.</p><p>But- no matter. The situation can be rectified.</p><p>“We’ve been together plenty of times. Sexually, just plain physically. We’re together now. I’d think you would have noticed that, and it wouldn’t mean the telling,” Dirk says. His voice is perfectly even, of course; it never does to show when someone’s taken you badly off-guard. And the obtuse card is an easy enough one, though he rarely bothers with it.</p><p>“You know that’s not what I meant.” Egbert says that flat, with an angry twist to his mouth. Like he has any right to be upset about Dirk being <em>wrong</em>. “The- black romance. Together like that. You didn’t tell me we were basically in a quadrant.”</p><p> “I thought you knew,” he answers, not quite as smoothly as he would like. “The quadrant system is fairly well-understood, even for humans, and pitch relationships are distinctive enough that it should have been obvious. What else would it have been?”</p><p>“I don’t do quadrants-,”</p><p>“Despite that, ours was a rather textbook blackrom, I’m afraid. Two sides opposed to one another, unyielding, but pushing to change the other and ergo forcing the other to improve in order to resist it. But some things are only good on paper.”</p><p>“Right,” John says. He isn’t quite understanding it, Dirk can tell.</p><p>“In <em>any</em> event,” Dirk continues. “We’re not together anymore, not by any definition of the term. This is the sort of decisive victory that ends kismesissitudes, and even if it weren’t, the current circumstances are unacceptable for me to be interested in continuing one. Of course, all of this is a moot point; you don’t do quadrants, and your entire inadvertent response only stoked a misunderstanding on my part. Mother would be so disappointed. She’d have my guts for garters.”</p><p>Dirk’s proud of himself, that he manages only to sound dismissively wistful rather than bitter at the last one. As much as he wants to believe that this is all John Egbert’s fault, that he’s been led on and reeled in, he knows it isn’t. Dirk was reduced to nothing, bargaining for his life with betrayal, with a sister he hadn’t known he’d had and who would kill him without a second thought, and he has only himself to blame at the end. He was the one who agreed to leave. If the hook was cast, Dirk deliberately perched on it like a fat-ass dumb starfish after gobbling up all that tasty bait.</p><p>Knowing this doesn’t make it any easier a pill to swallow. Knowing this doesn’t make him any less angry, and it bubbles up, hot and molten. He wonders if Dave feels this every time he looks at Dirk, and if so, he decides that it explains a lot. Anger isn’t something that Dirk <em>does</em>- he’s never understood it before. Not like this, not how to misdirect it and use it to hurt. It’s not productive, it’s sloppy, it makes mistakes, but what mistake is worse than what he’s already committed?</p><p>“So, we’re not-,”</p><p>“No, Mr. Egbert. We aren’t. You can rest assured, romantic feelings of any sort between us are no longer in the cards- and they were clearly not in your hand, either. Wires got crossed, there was a misunderstanding. Do try to contain your excitement until you’re out of the room, I’m sure you want to jump for joy, but if you concuss yourself on the ceiling, I’ll have no choice other than to throttle you with my pillowcase.”</p><p>“A…misunderstanding,” Egbert says, slowly.</p><p>“Yes,” Dirk enunciates. He injects just the right amount of contempt into his voice; it’s genuine, too, he dislikes that Egbert is here parroting his own words back at him like some sort of cheap trick. It’s a waste of time, not that he has anything <em>but</em> time to waste right now, but it still grates on him. “That’s exactly what I said. Congratulations on being able to mimic words, I’m sure it’s a remarkable talent that you’ll be able to market well as part of your terrible performances.”</p><p>“They’re not terrible,” Egbert protests. As if that is the only objectionable thing Dirk has said so far.</p><p>This is where, if things were like they’d been before, Dirk would insist that they are, and point out every flaw he could find in the latest one, and say that of course he’s only watching it because he has to keep his enemies close, doesn’t he? And Egbert would no doubt ask how close, and press him up against a wall, all faux-threat and blue eyes darkening with want.</p><p>But things aren’t like before, and he was so fucking wrong about what <em>before</em> was, too, that it’s useless to even think of it in that way. So Dirk simply keeps quiet, and there’s a beat where Egbert opens his mouth to give a snippy comeback to a retort that wasn’t there, before he closes it and looks so pathetically confused for a split second that it makes Dirk’s chest twinge.</p><p>Now’s not the time for any of this.</p><p>He wrests control of the situation back with a noncommittal hum, and slouches deliberately lower against the wall, his posture as casual as can be. He doubts that it would fool anyone who already knows him, but Egbert has hardly seen him relax. And, more to the point, when he’s done, Egbert won’t want to look any further than the surface of what Dirk presents to him.</p><p>“Is that all you came here for? To see if I was doing something as absurd as pining after you?” Dirk asks, insolent like he’s never been allowed before. It’s refreshing, perhaps that’s why Dave likes it so much. “I’m sure you’ve already had enough laughs about that, and so I’ve no intention of providing you with more. The conditions of my…stay here are simple, Mr. Egbert. Your group will feed me when they remember to, presumably to keep me able to talk, and I tell them what they want to know. It’s a simple quid pro quo.</p><p>“Of course,” he adds conversationally, just to drive the knife in deep and twist it, just because John Egbert is so damned soft when it comes to this that he can’t <em>not</em> hit where it hurts, and he has to now, he has to carve out any chance of this happening again, “I assume they’ll consult you on where to dump my body when you’ve wrung out all you can, so there’s no real point in leaving any detailed instructions, since you’d just ignore them and toss the corpse into a ditch or something.”</p><p>Predictably, Egbert flinches at that as if he’s been struck. Unpredictably, something catches behind his eyes, and he straightens up.</p><p>Dirk isn’t supposed to be provoking him out of this shit. That is, in fact, the opposite of what he’s supposed to be doing. Unfortunately, it doesn’t change how he’s still interested in the way John’s ire flares up. It’s as captivating as ever, being able to frustrate someone who tries to be so- <em>nice</em> all the time.</p><p>And more than that, it makes the rage that’s still seeping molten out of his core purr like some meowbeast, darkly satisfied. Some part of him- that part, that splinter of nothing but bitterness and useless emotion, wants a fight. And fuck, if Dirk isn’t tempted. If he isn’t already picking one.</p><p>But that isn’t something he can do anymore, Dirk reminds himself. It’s largely futile. He has to stay in control of this, and of himself.</p><p>“Listen. I don’t want you dead, okay? So. Let’s just get that out of the way. I just came here to find out what was going on,” Egbert says, his eyes narrowed now. “And, I guess I got that stuff answered, huh. That whatever was going on was just a big mistake.”</p><p>“On both our parts,” Dirk agrees.</p><p>“And that it didn’t mean anything.” Oh, Egbert is pushing it now. Dirk smiles back, the kind that told people before that he was in a <em>shit</em> mood, the kind that Dave was usually the cause of, and that they’d better listen or else he would make them. It’s not a very nice smile. He doesn’t care.</p><p>“No,” he says, lying through his teeth. He’s well practiced at it. “It didn’t mean a single thing.”</p><p>“Then why did you come here? Why did you listen?”</p><p>“Why does it matter to you?” Dirk counters. “I’m here, and you achieved your goal.”</p><p>Dirk decides not to say that he may have achieved one of his own as well, in getting away.</p><p>
  <strike>His situation was untenable, Mother would have found out eventually, and Dave was going to at any point soon, if he didn’t already, and Dirk did not need to give his brother any more power over him that way. Staying would not have been in his best interests. John may have been right. </strike>
</p><p>“Maybe I just want to know,” Egbert says. Stubborn, just as he always is when he decides that yes, this is something he cares enough about to dig his heels in for.</p><p>“You got your answers about our shared past, I don’t see the need to offer any more. Especially since you don’t need to know. If it were ah, crucial information about CrockerCorp, then by the deal I made I would be obligated to divulge that.” Dirk smiles, thin. “But it isn’t. You’re free to come up with whatever scenario it is you would like, as to why I’m here, and why I listened. But suffice it to say that I knew it was a risk, and that I decided to take it.”</p><p>Egbert actually groans, the sound frustrated as hell. Perfect. “That’s not a real answer!”</p><p>“It’s all the answer you’re going to get,” Dirk tells him simply.</p><p>“God. Why are you like this?”</p><p>“Is that another question? Because I’m not sure I feel the need to detail the finer points of my upbringing that shaped me into the person that I am, so you’ll need to content yourself with the answer that I am only what I was designed. Nothing more, nothing less. If you were expecting any different, then I’m afraid you were simply deluding yourself. I’d apologize, but I’m not in the habit of apologizing for other people’s mistakes.”</p><p>That, at least, seems to stun Egbert into silence once more, finally.</p><p>Dirk watches his expression closely, sees it flicker from frustration to anger, to- something else, something he doesn’t recognize, but no matter- and then back again, before Egbert just heaves out another sigh.</p><p>“You’re such an asshole, you know that? I don’t even know why I bothered with this, or with you! This was so dumb,” he frowns over at Dirk now, like it’s somehow <em>his</em> fault Egbert got it in his head to come and try this nonsense. Gloating would have been kinder, Dirk thinks, uncharitably.</p><p>He doesn’t know why Egbert is bothering with him either, but he doesn’t like that the other is phrasing it as some kind of favor. As if this is <em>better</em> than where he was before. It only makes him angrier.</p><p>(It is, and it isn’t, and he’s going to ignore that for now. He has to reserve judgement until his situation becomes less precarious, anyway.)</p><p>“It’s a good thing you won’t have to bother with me anymore, then, isn’t it?” Dirk points out. “As far as I can tell, we won’t need to see each other at all. You can return to hiding away in your room like a pathetic crybaby, and I’ll continue to be in my cell, seeing as I can’t leave. It should, in fact, be exceedingly easy for you to not bother with me anymore. I’m a prisoner, the rest of the wardens and guards can do that for you, though I think it’s bad form to give up like that and try to pretend that you aren’t the one who brought me here.”</p><p>“Brought you here? You’re acting like I kidnapped you, instead of you just randomly agreeing to come! And you still won’t explain why it is you did that.” John is pointing a very accusing finger at him now, and Dirk swats it out of the way, immediately.</p><p>“Enough of that. Is it not enough that I’m going to be telling <em>your</em> people every single detail about my work before this, and no doubt they’re going to try to get every single detail of my life, too? If it isn’t relevant- and this is not, to anything- I am keeping it to myself.”</p><p>“It’s relevant to me,” Egbert says, damnably soft.</p><p>Dirk laughs. He can’t help it.</p><p>He doesn’t get angry like Dave does, no; his has always been creeping. It burns, yes, but it’s one of cold, because Dirk has never- and will never- let it get the better of him. But now? Now, he doesn’t know how much he cares to hold on. He’s picked this fight, he’s poked at Egbert until he got the response he wanted, and all their usual avenues of dealing with it are very much off the table. But that’s fine, isn’t it? It didn’t matter at all.</p><p>He might be alienating his only ally here- but that’s not quite true, is it, not when he’s the fool who stuck his foot in the trap. No, it’d be foolish to rely on John Egbert when trusting him before would simply have gotten him killed, or worse. Likely much worse. At least this, Dirk can do on his own terms. At least this, he can repay in fucking <em>spades.</em></p><p>“No, it isn’t. And- oh, I know what’s going on, here. You’re suffering from a guilty conscience now, aren’t you, Mr. Egbert? Your bleeding heart was always going to be an inconvenience. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not flattered by the attention.” And this is genuine; there’s something particularly disgusting about Egbert being so disingenuous as to come here solely for reassurance, to hear Dirk tell him that he isn’t the reason that Dirk is sitting in this cell right now. Perhaps it’s just because Dirk didn’t think he would do that. Perhaps it’s because that Dirk <em>could</em> say it- he can’t blame John entirely, not when this was his choice. It may yet have been the wrong one, but it’s one that he made.</p><p>His first foray into true independence, and he’s ended up in his enemy’s prison. There’s some sort of a life lesson to be had here, he knows. Mother would find this absolutely fucking hilarious, if she suspects that he’d done this voluntarily.</p><p>(If she does, he’s finished, no matter where he is. She doesn’t suffer betrayals lightly, and the theft of Company property less so.)</p><p>“It’s not- I’m not guilty. You already said it was your fault you were here before,” Egbert says, crossing his arms over his chest.</p><p>“And what happens if I say that it’s your fault?” Dirk asks, raising an eyebrow. “What if I tell you that you were fully willing to lead me to my death, and that in fact you were probably planning on it, only to have a wrench thrown in that? What if I tell you that I think you’re here to finish the job right now, because you’ve finally got me where it is you want me, where you can do what you want with no consequences?”</p><p>He’s pushing it, now. Dirk knows he’s pushing it. He knows he’s letting a little real anger seep through his voice, and he reins it in. That isn’t what this is for. But it does make Egbert flinch a little, those broad shoulders tightening and curling inwards.</p><p>A guilty conscience indeed.</p><p>“You think that consequences were the only thing stopping me from just straight up murdering you before?” Egbert asks. It’s ridiculous that he sounds upset about that, of all things. “I wouldn’t have- that’s not, I mean. That isn’t how we do things, if we can help it.”</p><p>“But fucking me until I turned coat is somehow more honorable? Holding me here where I have no choice <em>but</em> to do as you want is better? Don’t lie to yourself, Mr. Egbert. I would have been tortured had I not made any kind of agreement, we both know that there were compatriots of yours fully willing to indulge themselves in that.”</p><p>“But I’m not!” John bursts out, in a way that makes Dirk almost believe him. He knows that John had seen the looks on <em>those</em> particular faces, and he remembers the warm, almost protective weight of an arm around his shoulders when they’d walked by, first coming here.</p><p>Laughable, to think that he needed protection at all, and Dirk would laugh, to think that he’d relished in the familiarity of that touch. It’s a weakness that he should have carved out of himself a long time ago.</p><p>“No, you’re far too squeamish to have done it yourself. You like to keep your hands clean, don’t you? So you can sleep well at night comforted by the flimsy blanket of plausible deniability.” Dirk sneers for good measure, lets his voice slide into the inflection of highblood-to-lowblood, a drawl that he doesn’t often use. But old habits die hard, and he aches to lash out harder, to pull John apart until there’s nothing but a bleeding mess left where whatever emotions he’s trying to fool Dirk with were, and then turn those knives in on himself.</p><p>He was always good with a blade, even if he’s no butcher like Dave.</p><p>“I don’t need <em>plausible deniability</em>,” John shoots right back, but his shoulders are right, defensive, and his voice wavers on the first syllable. Good. That’s good, isn’t it? “You know, because I’m not murderer, and a traitor?” That’s playing dirty. It’s all Dirk can do not to flinch at it- he knows what happens to traitors, and he knows what is going to happen to him, and, well. To think not a month ago he was worried about Egbert being the one flayed open, and him watching. No, now he knows it’s going to be the other way around, and Egbert is going to be the one watching, and laughing, and knowing he got what he deserved.</p><p>“And- so what if I want to keep my hands clean? I’m a good person, I want to be a good person, and I’m working at it. ‘Don’t torture people’ is actually not that difficult to do, not that you’d know anything about it,” he finishes, smug with his victory.</p><p>“You’re going to have to decide whether or not you want me to be guilty, you know,” Dirk drawls out. He keeps his own posture deliberately casual, insolent enough that Mother would’ve corrected it instantly and told him to stop letting Dave rub off on him.</p><p>“What?” Oh, that one’s taken him aback, hasn’t it? No man is an island, but a fortress may be an apt metaphor. Especially one Dirk happens to have the blueprints for.</p><p>“You heard me,” Dirk says, simply. “You have to decide whether or not you want me to be guilty. I’ve never made any claims of being a good person, just a good worker. The two are not the same thing. Your people argue that the second necessitates the sacrifice of the first. I’m not going to disagree there, but you understand why we wouldn’t publicize that, right? But that’s not the point. You want to talk about blood on my hands? Fine, <em>Mr. Egbert</em>, go right ahead. I know it’s there, I know what I did to put it there, and I know why I did what I did to put it there. And you are the <em>last</em> person I owe an explanation to when it comes to that, so don’t even think about asking me.</p><p>“But do you know what’s terribly interesting?” Dirk continues, tilting his head to the side. He keeps his tone conversational, but Egbert’s eyes are still narrowed, looking for the mockery. Waiting for the sting. He doesn’t have to wait too long; Dirk puts him out of his misery. “That at least some of that blood, is, by your logic, on your hands too. If I’m responsible for the actions of those related to me, and those under me, even ones I didn’t give direct orders to- and no, I’m not denying any accountability here, I’m very well-acquainted with bureaucracy and the corporate hierarchy-, then are you not responsible for the consequences to <em>your</em> actions? Or rather, your inactions?”</p><p>“Oh, that’s rich, you’re really going to try and blame me for all the shit you did?” Egbert outright laughs, the sound ugly and cruel. It doesn’t suit him at all. Dirk thinks that were they in his office, were they on <em>his</em> territory, he might have revelled to hear it, and know that John Egbert had a bit of darkness in him after all, and that it was ready to be drawn out. “Because that is definitely not how accountability works.”</p><p>“If you’re holding me as a scapegoat for everyone, shouldn’t the fact that plenty of wrongs were committed between when we first started <em>that</em>, and now, also rest on you?”</p><p>“Okay, Crocker, you are going to need to walk me through these hoops, because I’m really lost here.” Egbert’s shaking his head now, indulgent, like he thinks he’s won this.</p><p>“There’s only the one hoop, and you should be able to get through it just fine.” A pause, deliberate. “There isn’t much I could do if I was dead, now is there?”</p><p>That wipes the smile right off his face, and Dirk swears he goes pale.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>It’s working. It’s underhanded, a fucking filthy tactic, the kind of mind games that Dirk wouldn’t blink twice at if it came to inflicting them on anyone else. He isn’t sure whether or not he ought to be guilty or proud- and, well, what’s one more crime to the list? This isn’t going to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.</p><p>“You heard me. You had ample opportunity to kill me, and get away with it, if you were determined to. But you didn’t. And so a whole fuckin’ lot of what could have been prevented, wasn’t. You say that you don’t torture people. That’s hardly a distinction to make when you’ve killed before. In fact, one’s worse than the other, don’t you think?”</p><p>“I haven’t,” John says, numbly. “I haven’t killed anyone.”</p><p>“Mr. Egbert,” Dirk says, not unkindly, because <em>kindly</em> hurts so much more in this context, “You have a warhammer as a weapon. You didn’t think that anyone you hit with it was getting back up again, did you?”</p><p>“Don’t- no. Don’t say that,” Egbert shakes his head, frowning now. “Half of them do, and I know not to hit that hard, and- you can’t even lie convincingly about this one, I know you mess around with a bunch of fucked up ectobiology stuff to make people heal faster, better.”</p><p>Dirk doesn’t need to answer that with any elaborate denial or justification; the seed of doubt has already been sown, and Egbert is going to water it all on his own.</p><p>“That requires them to not be dead for it to work,” he says, instead. “But, we can leave that, since it distracts from the original point. You say you want to keep your hands clean, and that’s well and good, but at what cost? I can <em>guarantee</em> you, that your esteemed leader hasn’t kept hers spotless, even after leaving her chequered past behind, and you’re even more of an idiot than I originally thought if you believe otherwise.”</p><p>“Yeah, and so what? Rose has done everything she can to fight against what she came from, and you’re just- sitting here, pretending like running away makes you a good person!”</p><p>There it is. Dirk doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t savor the blow like he otherwise might have, knowing that he deserves it.</p><p>“How many times do I have to say it, Mr. Egbert? Must I write it out in blood for you? I’m not a good person,” he repeats himself, with more of an edge to his voice than he’d like. It doesn’t matter what John Egbert thinks of him. Truly, it doesn’t. “Denial isn’t an attractive quality.”</p><p>“You can tell me whatever you want, I guess, but you know what? If I’m bad, at least <em>I </em>know that I’m not as bad as you are,” Egbert sneers this time. It’s an ugly expression, and it suits him less, but Dirk- well. Dirk knows that contempt in his voice, and he hates that it cuts so deep. He isn’t meant to be affected, when he’s guiding the hand holding the blade. But then again, he might have provoked John, but he’s not putting words in his mouth.</p><p>Ah, but hasn’t Dirk always known that this is what John Egbert thinks of him?</p><p>He’s only been too polite to say it.</p><p>And it’s politeness that Dirk holds fast to, as he fixes an icy smile on his face and clasps his hands behind his back.</p><p>“I’ve never seduced anyone with the express goal of pulling them away from everything important to them and then using them for all the information that they’re worth,” Dirk tells him instead. “I’ve never lied to you like that. But you were the one who pressed the advantage, saw weakness and used it. How wrong we’d been, to think you weren’t capable of that kind of deceit. Mother might even have approved, if you’d shown your true colors any sooner.”</p><p>Those last words are deliberate; a daydream. She might have understood, but she never would have approved, and she’d have torn them both apart for it. Maybe she would have put them both back together again after, rearranged as she liked, made better. But maybe she wouldn’t have.</p><p>Either way, Egbert flinches as if he’s been slapped. There’s a flash of hurt so genuine in his face, the way his eyes widen, his mouth opens just so, full lips parting to reveal teeth that ought to have been fixed a long, long time ago. And then it’s gone, vulnerability covered up with anger in a way that even Dave would be envious of, assuming Dave even knows what vulnerability is.</p><p>“You know what? Just- fuck you. Fuck you, Dirk Crocker,” he spits out, and he doesn’t sound furious so much as he does defeated. And disappointed, and that’s the emotion that has the gall to make Dirk’s throat close up.</p><p>“You already did,” he says numbly, not like Egbert is going to notice, or care. He’s done what he set out to do. The knife’s in, twisted, he’s practically pried open his ribcage, and it doesn’t feel satisfying at all.</p><p>But then, Dirk thinks, as he watches John Egbert storm out of his cell without so much as a look back, these things never do. There’s always a price to pay for every outburst, but this, at least, is one that Dirk anticipated.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: References to past injuries. And, like. Clowns.</p><p>Another chapter I've had to split into two, but that's fine, I think.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dirk is sitting in an extremely uncomfortable plastic chair, as apparently extremely uncomfortable chairs are the true bane of his existence, and facing not one, but three trolls unlike any others he’s seen before. Well, all but one, and he’d noticed the similarity before, but he hadn’t commented on it at the time. He’d been rather busy.</p><p>Mother only tended to keep highbloods around; he might see a bronzeblood, or someone on the warmer end of the hemospectrum, but the ones in his immediate vicinity were- also unfortunately- clowns. He is not entirely sure what he should be doing, faced with obviously a mutantblood (the color of Dave’s eyes, no less, almost a matching pair- no wonder Mother prefers him to wear his shades), a yellowblood who is quite obviously somehow related to the troll in the tank, and a jadeblood who Dirk is fairly sure has no real cause to be here, and yet here she is. The one thing he is certain about is that they all hate him, but that’s to be expected.</p><p>Dirk has never been particularly well-liked; he’s too cold, too professional for it. At least they have reasons that aren’t petty jealousy, but this motley crew’s opinion hardly matters. He musters up his sixth most polite smile, because any higher would be somewhat blasphemous, given their places, and folds his hands on his lap.</p><p>“You’ll be recording this, I take it?” he asks. “How are we going to do it?”</p><p>He’s well-aware of standard interrogation or debriefing protocol, of course, but somehow, he doubts that it will apply here.</p><p>“You answer the fucking questions when we ask them, you goddamn idiot. I thought she designed you with something fucking functional in that empty skull of yours, but god, am I always just proven fucking wrong.”</p><p>Dirk blinks.</p><p>That’s a level of vitriol he hadn’t been expecting.</p><p>It’s understandable, as he’d said before- this coming from the one with candy-red eyes- but this troll is acting as if he killed his lusus singlehandedly. Dirk’s no Orphaner, that’s still reserved for the youngest violetblood around. He didn’t envy him before, but he suspects he’d rather be almost eaten by several enormous lusii than deal with more of this.</p><p>He definitely is not going to say any of that. He promised cooperation. He promised information, and he got precisely what he wanted in return. He’ll face this nonsense with grace, and decorum just as a-</p><p>Just as he’s used to.</p><p>It can’t be worse than Dave.</p><p>“Karkat,” the jadeblood says, admonishing. Is she in charge, then? It’s difficult to tell, given that she isn’t the one who’d spoken first. “It is a valid question and I understand why you may have it.” This, directed at him now. Her skin is pale, especially for a troll, almost as radiant as the fluorescence from the bulb above them. Literally. Is she- glowing?</p><p>“I will explain the protocols now. You will speak and answer the questions in as much detail as you remember. And we will record it for later. Sollux will be taking his own notes, Karkat will try not to be so rude all the time as you are assisting us in this matter and we appreciate it.”</p><p>“And you will be...mediating?” Dirk hazards. It’s what she <em>has</em> been doing so far, in any event.</p><p>“Of sorts and if it is needed although I hope it is not. I am simply here to observe and also to make sure the session does not run too long as we all have quite busy schedules.” She pauses, smiles primly in a way that reveals all her fangs, especially the two sharp eyeteeth. Dirk supposes it would work on anyone who hadn’t seen Mother smile before. But it is a good effort, and he smiles back, flashing his own. <em>She</em> doesn’t seem surprised by that, not like the other two. Interesting. “And of course I am here to ensure that things do not get out of hand either. You can think of me as security if you like.”</p><p>“You seem too mild-mannered for that,” Dirk says, honestly. She’s the most polite out of the three, that had been immediately clear.</p><p>“Yeah, don’t let that fool you, asshole,” Sollux- he thinks, that’s the yellowblood, right?- sneers. He’s going to be a treat to deal with, lisp and all. Dirk’s never been called an <em>athhole </em>before, he likes the novelty. “You haven’t seen her with a chainsaw but I want front row seats when she gets her hands on you, DC.”</p><p>Never mind, the novelty’s worn off. Dirk could answer in kind, of course, but if there’s a time limit, he doesn’t want to be labelled as antagonistic and unhelpful and sent down to- whatever version of re-education they have that Lalonde is no doubt pretending doesn’t exist.</p><p>“If you intend to keep provoking me, by what she said, I think you’d be first in line,” he says, perfectly pleasant. “But we should get to work, right? Especially if you’re all so busy.” He makes sure to inject a healthy amount of doubt and contempt for the activities they’re purportedly busy with. Surprisingly, the only one who reacts at all is Karkat, with a snarl that rumbles deep in his chest.</p><p>The tone of it is more frustrated than threatening; Dirk’s never heard Mother snarl like that. It’s- confusing. Just because he’s agreed doesn’t mean that they like him- evidence points, in fact, to them not. And no offense meant (okay, perhaps some), but these trolls, with the possible exception of the jadeblood, don’t seem professional enough to be putting their own feelings on the matter aside for the greater good. He’s fairly sure that they think the greater good would be him in a grave.</p><p>It should be more discomfiting. Other than Dave and Noir, the others he worked with made quite the effort to hide their jealous, hatred, and/or disdain from him. He knew, of course, that they coveted what he had, and would be keeping an eye out for any mistakes, anything less than perfection, and would eagerly run off to report it to Dave or Mother, or try to leverage it themselves.</p><p>Office fatalities had risen by quite a lot, when he and Dave entered the White House. But it was for the best.</p><p>“Are you done yet or do you have any more snarky comments to make?” the jadeblood- Kanaya, he should probably call her by her name- asks. Blunt, but polite. Her manner of speaking is amusing, with how she enunciates every word clearly. Her English is good; there’s no trace of any kind of Alternian accent, which is interesting- thoracic differences mean that Mother’s tyrian drawl carries over, her s’s sibilant and her glottals often ending in clicks or low chirrs, depending on the sound. She also can’t roll her r’s. He doubts that Kanaya would have any of those issues.</p><p>Then again, these trolls are also a lot younger, have spent a lot of time on Earth, and look completely different from Mother. It isn’t that surprising; they probably have more to worry about when it comes to blending in.</p><p>“I usually do, but I’ll keep them to a minimum,” he offers in turn, honest. He drums his fingers against the table.</p><p>“Yeah, I’d sure love to see that,” Sollux mutters, and Dirk’s attention is still caught on the doubled horns he sports. He- should talk to him about that. Later, if he doesn’t end up launching himself across the table to strangle him during this. “Let’s just get all the traitors up in here so they turn out to not be traitors and kill us in our beds.”</p><p>“I’m not surprised this has failed to escape your notice,” Dirk bites back, “But I spend most of my time locked in a cell. And killing you in your bed would require seeing you, which I would rather not do unless absolutely necessary.”</p><p>Whatever this particular troll’s reason for being so vitriolic, Dirk has no issue returning it. He’s always been a savage thing, in his own way- no one Mother raised could be passive and compliant to anyone other than her. Certainly, he’s not going to let <em>this</em> troll talk down to him.</p><p>“Quit fucking flirting you too, Jesus fuck, Captor, this is the goddamn opposite of what we came here to do,” the mutant interrupts before there can be any retort. Well, given that it’s in his favor, Dirk is not going to protest that. He should probably stop calling him the mutant, too, even if it’s only mentally. It’ll take effort, but Dirk does not want to be on <em>everyone’s</em> bad side, it’s strategically unsound. Even if he isn’t going to see any of these trolls outside of an official capacity, work is much easier when everyone can be civil.</p><p>“Well now that is out of the way I think we really ought to get started,” the jadeblood says. “Do you have any questions before we begin?”</p><p>Dirk just shakes his head to indicate that he doesn’t, and steadfastly ignores the yellowblood’s glare and how it prickles at his skin.</p><p>“Alright, good. Now we can get started and you chucklefucks aren’t going to keep interrupting me, because I fucking swear, I’m going to borrow Egbert’s dumb fucking impractical hammer and bash both your brains out with it, or maybe my own, so I don’t have to deal with your bullshit,” the- no, Karkat, snarls. That is an impressive amount of vitriol. Dirk wonders how he’s ever gotten this far being so angry, and if he mouths off to everyone like this.</p><p>By the serene expression on Kanaya’s face and the way that Captor’s hasn’t moved at all, he can only assume that it’s a normal occurrence.</p><p>Dirk certainly can’t understand being so free with your emotions. Or appearing anything less than perfectly in control. But Karkat clearly has no issue with it. It’s fascinating to watch, and mildly disturbing. He wonders if this is all genuine, or part of another act.</p><p>“So. Normal, useless shit out of the way first. Name, date, introduce yourself and how long you’ve been here, or whatever. For the file.” A gesture, almost contemptuous, at the dinky tape recorder on the table between them. Kanaya delicately reaches over, but before she can turn it on herself, there’s a flicker and the red light blinks. Dirk’s eyes narrow behind his shades.</p><p>“DC-XY02-120301,” he says, simply. “I go by Dirk. I’ve been here for- hm. Let’s err on the side of caution and say close to a month now-,” this is a lie, Dirk knows how long he’s been here down to the day, but they let it slide-, “and I am currently skulking in the basement like a particularly unpleasant gremlin, or the insane aunt in a gothic horror tale. With less shrieking,” he adds. “I enjoy long walks on the beach, puzzles, and big dicks.”</p><p>Karkat hisses out a breath. “Can you fucking be serious for once in your goddamn life? I mean, fucksake, Crocker, now is not the time for you to decide to grow a funny bone?”</p><p>“No Crocker, just Dirk,” he corrects the troll, and tries not to sound too amused. He thinks he fails, abysmally.</p><p>“Right,” Sollux drawls out. Christ. Why is it that everywhere he goes, he’s plagued with complete <em>assholes</em>?</p><p>Kanaya is, apparently, very skilled at intervening.</p><p>“I think the best thing to do now is for you to give us a summary of what was happening when you were leaving and perhaps also how you managed to go if you do not mind,” she says. Dirk shrugs.</p><p>“It won’t necessarily help you get anyone out,” he tells her. “I left from the White House, and the staffers there are there because they want to be. And besides, I’m sure security measures will have changed accordingly by now.”</p><p>“That is fine. Any information would be helpful I think and we are probably not going to be breaking anyone out. But if they wanted to break themselves out it would be a different story.”</p><p>“I’d say it would be easier for me than for the others, but I’m not entirely sure of that,” he begins. “I had to stage my own kidnapping, and it helped that I had an idea of the patterns of the guards- and, well, of all the workers. Some like to burn the midnight oil, some don’t. I’m one of the former. It isn’t unusual for me to remain in the office past the others, you see. Nor is it unusual to see me walking the hallways- or even venturing outside, now that I’m-,” allowed, he was going to say. “Now that Mother was relatively certain of my safety, given the proximity to the Dark Carnival. It’s difficult to make your way through that mass of tents, even if you’re coming from the inside out.”</p><p>Karkat nods, and his scowl deepens, which Dirk had not thought possible. But distaste for the clowns is something he can understand.</p><p>“But you knew the way,” Captor butts in. “Not exactly seeing how that’s harder for you, champ, but hey, if you want pity you might find it. KN’s a real bleeding heart.”</p><p>“I did. The complicating factor for me, personally, is that Dave spends a lot of time there,” he says, with a shrug. Deliberately casual. They don’t need to know anything about his relationship with Dave, but they know enough about Dave to understand why this is a complicating factor. He offers no further explanation. “That, and the fact that most of them would recognize me, if I was seen, and some of those juggalos haven’t had their pans rotted enough that they wouldn’t remember it, either. Facepaint and a hoodie over my suit would have been fine, but the problem is that they can smell fresh blood like fucking sharks, or those barkbeasts. Especially human. They want to, ah, paint with it.” That, he says as delicately as he can. No doubt they all know that already, but only two of the people in this room have red blood, and <em>Dirk</em> certainly hasn’t had anything to fear from the clowns in a long time.</p><p>“Wait,” Karkat interrupts. “So you fucking just walked through there and didn’t get- fucked in the pan so hard your brain fell out your ears?”</p><p>“...What?”</p><p>“He’s talking about the chucklevoodoos, moron,” Captor sneers. Dirk bites back on the sudden urge to tell him to know his place and shut the fuck up. “Aren’t you supposed to know all that shit?”</p><p>“Oh. I’ve never had a problem with them, to be honest,” he says. “I don’t know why. It’s- I don’t think that it was intentional, but their particular brand of mindfuckery has never quite worked on me. I mean, I’ll get a headache if I speak to the Highblood for too long, but I don’t think that’s unusual. He reeks.”</p><p>“Oh. Oh, sure, he gets a <em>headache</em>, a fucking migraine, after speaking to <em>the</em> biggest clown mindfucker on the planet whose goddamn bonebulge is probably bigger than his entire fucking body, because that’s normal, yeah,” Karkat spits out. Dirk cannot tell whether he’s impressed, disgusted, or horrified.</p><p>“The last thing I want to think about right now is clown tentacle dong, bro, just because Dave is into that kinda hentai and wants to live it out on the regular does not mean I’m interested,” Dirk says, at a loss for any other words.</p><p>“Yeah, because your fucking psychotic brother riding the fucking king juggalo’s bulge is exactly what I want to think about? Fucking thanks, Crocker, Jesus Christ,” is the furious answer. And Dirk has to admit that it’s fair enough.</p><p>“Dave tops.” A pause. “Or so he says. Perhaps we should stop talking about this? I’ve had enough of him oversharing, and I never thought I’d hear about his sex life again. Yet here we are. It manages to invade every corner of my life, there’s no escape, I’ll be dead and buried and as I burn in hell, I’ll hear Careless Whisper begin playing on the saxophone as he starts to relate in horrifying detail the complete shitshow his latest lay was.”</p><p>“You’re being melodramatic I think,” Kanaya interjects, kindly. “But I can understand that you would not want to hear about it because it sounds quite unpleasant. Not that I would like to kinkshame anyone.”</p><p>“Kinkshaming is, unfortunately, his kink. He’s incapable of feeling anything without fetishizing it in ten different ways first, especially shame,” Dirk mutters, dark. “Mother tried that route for him for only ten seconds before abandoning it and returning to good, old-fashioned punishment. Probably the best way to deal with him, and even then, it’s only barely effective.”</p><p>Silence reigns for a moment.</p><p>Ah. He wasn’t meant to say that- or, anything about that. Dirk closes his eyes and takes a breath. He’s getting sloppy.</p><p>“My apologies, though. That’s not exactly relevant to breaking out, is it?” Dirk doesn’t wait for an answer, and he looks intently at the table as he continues. “Anyway. As I was saying, I made my way through the Carnival, painted as a novitiaterror. I kept the tracker in then, didn’t risk removing it until I was safely out. It was not the neatest of excisions, but I hardly had the time for anything more elaborate. I flicked the bug onto one of the Drones I’d hacked earlier; its flight course was set for out of the country. The intent was to throw them off as much as I could to buy time; if Mother thinks- thought- I was kidnapped, rather than me leaving willingly, it would be easier. And, of course, there’s plenty of blood at the scene itself. I wouldn’t exactly go down without a fight, but she is not of the belief that I could best a Drone.”</p><p>“Yeah, because they’re fucking impossible to <em>best</em> or whatever, if you’re not rocking psionics or you’re not a highblood,” Captor mutters, but he doesn’t sound upset, just contemptuous. Dirk pretends not to notice it. They’re in the middle of a business meeting, after all. There’s hardly time for <em>that</em>, and while hate at first sight is a common trope, Dirk doesn’t believe in it in real life.</p><p>(He suspects he’s likely had his one great hatemance already, in any event. And he doesn’t think he would trade it for anything.)</p><p>“You said she believes it,” Kanaya says. Dirk isn’t sure if all jadebloods are this perceptive, or if it’s just her, but he’s noticing a habit of her picking up on plenty of things he might not want to elaborate on. Even when she doesn’t outright comment on them. “Does that mean you disagree because I have to say that it does sound like you disagree.”</p><p>“I disagree,” he says, simply. “But I did have a hand in building some of them. There hasn’t been sufficient design change since then, but- I assume that’s a question for a later day?”</p><p>“It sure fucking is, champ. You want a gold star for guessing that right?” Captor, of course, snarls this. Whatever his problem may be, Dirk has no issue adding to it, though.</p><p>“Is that a euphemism?” he asks, as blandly as possible, and he has the great satisfaction of watching the asshole sputter. It’s nice to know that he can still do that. “As I was saying. It was rather simple after that; once the tracker was on its way, I met Mr. Egbert at a pre-arranged location, and he dealt with the bulk of the transport. I’ve not many details on that, but I think you know the rest.</p><p>“We do, yeah,” Karkat agrees. “Okay, fuck, right, we need to skip back to you fucking digging a tracking device out of yourself. Where was it?”</p><p>“On me? Here.” He taps the nape of his neck, just above his C3 vertebrae. It’s long since healed, but it’s odd to press into the spot and feel only the give of skin. “It was in- deep, let’s say. On trolls, it’s in roughly the same place. Carapacians, it’s under the shell; they can’t remove it on their own.”</p><p>“Yeah, we know that already. God, KN, are you even <em>sure</em> this guy’s worth it? He hasn’t told us shit yet.”</p><p>Dirk has to admit he’s starting to see the point of using trolls as batteries, inefficient as it may be when interstellar travel isn’t required. This one wouldn’t be able to talk half as much then.</p><p>“Maybe if you asked useful questions, I’d be giving you useful information,” Dirk says, as mildly and politely as he can. It’s the tone that’s always sent Dave into a frothing rage, when properly employed, and he’s pretty sure it’s going to work on this guy. “Trust me, I intend to uphold my end of the deal, but if you have nothing to do other than waste my time, there’s hardly a point to it. I mean, really. Do you care how I got out? Of course not. But if this is an attempt to establish some sort of rapport or camaraderie, I can assure you that it’s both useless and unnecessary. My cooperation is <em>assured, </em>there’s no need to put in the extra work.”</p><p>“Fuck, you’re a piece of goddamn work, aren’t you?” Karkat exhales. He still sounds angry, but less so, and that- that isn’t it. But the yellowblood, <em>he</em> seems furious. Dirk finds himself just fine with that. He is sick of people coming and talking to him, he is sick of his cell, he is sick of being nothing but human-weak and relearning the limits of his limbs, of subsisting off slop that’s probably meant to poison him from the inside out, he’s sick of being <em>here</em> and these people, pretending to be everything they’re not.</p><p>“I’ve never said otherwise,” Dirk answers. Honestly, because he has to, but perhaps too honest, because he would not have considered it before. “In fact, almost all the feedback I’ve received on the matter has been negative, so make what you will of that one, bro.”</p><p>He sees the troll’s lips form the shape of ‘bro’, incredulous. Mother had hated it when he slipped into colloquialisms (brolloquialisms) or made puns that weren’t ocean-related, but Dave had found them somewhat amusing. Then again, Dave could find anything funny if he was high enough.</p><p>“Yeah, what a surprise, the asshole is an asshole. We knew this whole time.” This, drawled out from Captor, who Dirk decides immediately that he’s never going to like or get along with, come hell or high water. Probably both. “Seriously-,” <em>theriouthly</em>, and Dirk is doing his best not to mock him for that, because while he’s very much fine finishing a fight, it’d be best not to start one, “I told you this would be a waste of time. We’d be better off just getting shit done instead of bothering with this, it’s like trying to talk to the computer when you could just burn the server room down and laugh maniacally in the ashes.”</p><p>“This is what Rose wants to do,” Kanaya says, and her voice has quiet authority that Dirk is very interested to note goes completely ignored.</p><p>“And RL knows everything, does she? Humans are so annoying thinking they can solve all the problems their way.”</p><p>Dirk is very sure that this guy had probably advised against taking him in. He appreciates the honesty, though.</p><p>“It is a human planet,” Dirk points out, to be a dick. “And it’s not as if Lalonde <em>doesn’t</em> have a personal stake in this.”</p><p>Kanaya’s eyes narrow. She’s looking at him, daring him to say more. It isn’t a secret anymore, though. At least, not that Dirk knows- anyone who saw them in the same room together would be able to trace the resemblance. He’s not exactly publicizing the fact, but Rose is the one who’s meant to dealing with the backlash from other people.</p><p>But apparently, there’s some who wouldn’t be a fan of her, knowing that she’s Crocker stock, born and bred. Well, grown and bred; Mother doesn’t hold with pregnancy, and Dirk can’t quite fault her for it. He wonders if that’s something she built into him- into all of them, with their strange mix of human and troll.</p><p>Dirk keeps his mouth shut.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, we all get she has a vendetta a mile fucking long against the Condesce,” Captor says, and the way he says Mother’s official title is actually blasphemous. She’d cull him just for that. Dirk’s not a good enough person to think he wouldn’t take pleasure in the order, if it’d fallen to him. “Point <em>is</em>, what use are all of you anyway? You let her in.”</p><p>“I think her husband let her in, actually,” Dirk corrects. “I’m almost positive old Sassacre knew what she was when he married her. Monsterfuckers abound, as the kids say.”</p><p>“And motherfuckers, too,” Captor sneers, an ugly expression. There’s a light behind the hideous tinted glasses he wears. “C’mon, tell me, Crocker, are you missing your mommy like w riggler misses their lusus?”</p><p>Dirk- does not see red. He does, however, think very hard about how nice it would be to knock his ugly fucking teeth out.</p><p>“No. Do you miss having someone who gives a shit about you- oh, wait,” Dirk pauses, and smiles with all his teeth. It’s mean, it’s distinctly Alternian- distinctly <em>highblood</em>, he’d been taught, and isn’t it nice how it makes both the mutant and the yellowblood flinch?-, and it shows his eyeteeth off to their most menacing. “No one ever wastes time giving a damn about a battery.”</p><p>Judging by the room goes ice-silent, Dirk knows that he’s either overstepped or gone too far.</p><p>He doesn’t care, though.</p><p>If that is how Captor wants to play (if that’s how he wants Dirk to <em>be</em>), this is how he’ll do it.</p><p>His eyes flash red-blue-red and Dirk barely resists the urge to flinch away violently</p><p>(<em>buoy there ain’t anywhere to go and efin you know that, just stay put for a little moray and we’ll be done or else</em>)</p><p>because she hadn’t liked it, when he flinched too much. He grips the edge of the table tight as energy buzzes right down to the pulp of his teeth.</p><p>Psionic energy crackles in the air around him and charges it like lightning and he can’t think of anything but being small and curling up as the energy pushed in and in and suffocated him, smeared him against the wall until he couldn’t breathe, then yanked him around, his limbs jerking clumsily despite his best efforts, and all through it, laughter, laughter, laughter.</p><p>Dirk digs his nails hard into the meat of his palms.</p><p>No.</p><p>No, no, nonono-</p><p>Not now.</p><p>He’s older, he’s <strike>been good </strike>not there anymore. He’s sitting at a table with three trolls and none of them are Mother, but he focuses his gaze on the wall behind them and starts counting the faint, hairline chips in the warm, daisy-yellow paint.</p><p>“Sollux,” Kanaya says, warning. Shit, fuck. She’s noticed. His breathing’s even, he’s good at that. He’s tense, yes, but he’s always tense. The only tell is that his heart feels like it’s going to pound of out his chest, and he just might vomit all over the place when they leave, but- neither of those things are obvious. The other two certainly haven’t noticed. “That’s enough. And Dirk if you would please not provoke him and make this worse I would appreciate it because really that took up a lot of time and I am afraid we must all be going now, so if you would both apologize?”</p><p>“What?” Oh, Sollux is not happy about that. Dirk bites his tongue hard so he doesn’t say anything snide. “C’mon, KN, that’s not fair. He’s the one who started it and I was going to finish it, there’s nothing wrong with that when he’s been talking so much shit.”</p><p>“He is our guest and Rose would be most upset if something happened to him,” Kanaya says. She’s using some kind of sternly maternal voice that Dirk only recognizes from old movies, when he and Dave were allowed to watch them. It’s the sort of thing that Mother had tried to imitate, and obviously failed. He hadn’t known anyone could succeed, it’s fascinating. “And Dirk-,” ah. Less fascinating when turned to him. “There is no need to antagonize him like that as we are all just trying to adjust to your presence and we are all on the same side now.”</p><p>“As if he could be on the <em>same side</em>-,”</p><p>“I am, actually,” Dirk interrupts this time, before Kanaya can step in. He appreciates her original intervention, but if he forever lets her handle things, there won’t be any rest from this troll’s nonsense. “Call me a traitor, call me whatever you want, bro, but the fact of the matter is, I can’t go back. Assuming that Mother isn’t beside herself in fury and doesn’t kill me on the spot,” or that Dave doesn’t get to him first, which would be infinitely more worrying if Dave was the type to be bothered to look, even on order, “she would do the same thing to me that she would to you.”</p><p>Captor does <em>not</em> like hearing that one bit, but it makes the shortest of the bunch frown so deeply that Dirk swears he ages before his eyes. There’s a question in his expression, and it’s deeply uncomfortable. More so than the rest of this.</p><p>He doesn’t dare look at Kanaya; he knows the sympathy that will be written across her face, even though they’ve just met. She’s the type for that, and Dirk isn’t.</p><p>Thankfully, Vantas interrupts loudly, clearing his throat in a diversion so obvious it honestly borders on the comical. There’s no words to follow it up, though, and Dirk decides to take pity on him, because none of that was something he should have said. The knowledge sits in his gut, threatens to burn a hole through his stomach.</p><p>“So. Are there any more questions?” he asks instead. It’s as close to a peace offering as he can get.</p><p>There aren’t any.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Back to John!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John squints at his phone, the light of the screen aggressive against his poor eyes. Bluh, he’s been putting off looking at it for ages- well, okay, not ages, because what if Rose needs him or something, but longer than usual. This is still the first actual message he’s gotten that’s not just email spam asking if he wants his dick to be bigger (no, he doesn’t, he hasn’t had any complaints about that, at least, so he’s pretty happy with it) or trying to get him to buy a plane ticket for like, ten bucks.<br/>
Joke’s on them, he can fly first class. He’s rich.<br/>
Although he had pretty much decided to drive out to the city before actually getting on a plane. They’ve got pilots and stuff at the compound- in the totally human sense, that is- but John always feels bad bothering them for things.<br/>
He eyes his phone for a long moment.<br/>
He kind of wishes this guy felt bad about that kind of thing, but John doesn’t think that Karkat has any kind of manners that would help him feel bad about it. Bluhhh.</p><p class="text">
</p><p class="block">
--- carcinoGeneticist [CG] has started pestering ectoBiologist [EB]! ---<br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: EGBERT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: JOHN.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCKING ASSHOLE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: ANSWER ME, JESUS.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: haha i don’t go by that but nice try!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: it’s really nice of you to say that, karkat.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: you never tell me how much you appreciate me anymore.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: UGH.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHY THE FUCK DO I EVEN BOTHER?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: HOW MANY FUCKING TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY THAT YOUR JOKES AREN’T FUNNY AND THAT I’D RATHER STAB OUT MY SEEING ORBS THAN HAVE TO READ THEM IN YOUR UGLY BLUE TEXT, EGBERT?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I’LL DO IT, DON’T THINK I WON’T, ESPECIALLY NOT IF IT’S GOING TO GET THAT SMUG LOOK OFF YOUR FUCKING FACE. PUT YOUR DAMN ROUNDTEETH AWAY, YOU’RE NOT A HOPBEAST.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: now you’re just being rude.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: but fine!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: not that you can tell what my teeth are doing, anyway.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i'm not falling for that ‘trolls are psychic and can see you’ thing again. that’d be super dumb.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: IT’S FUCKING RIDICULOUS YOU BELIEVED IT TO BEGIN WITH, NUMBNUTS. YOUR THINKPAN IS NO FUCKING BETTER THAN A SPONGE AND IT SPITS OUT THE DRIBBLED NONSENSE OF OLD DISHWATER THAT PASSES FOR JOKES ON THIS SHITTY PLANET.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YOU HAVE THE FUCKING TEETH OF THAT INANE OCEAN SCRUBBEAST TOO.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THAT SHIT WAS IMPERIAL PROPAGANDA FROM THE FUCKING SECOND THE STYLE CHANGED IN THE EARLY GODDAMN SEASONS AND YOU ALL FUCKING ATE IT UP WITHOUT A SINGLE THOUGHT OTHERWISE. GODDAMN HUMANS.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: again, rude! and spongebob was like, classic for ages afterwards, okay? it wasn't propaganda until they stopped making fun of mr. krabs as much.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCK THAT GUY AND HIS DUMB FUCKING PEG LEGS HE WALKED IN ON.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: why are you even here if all you’re going to do is complain about my excellent and very good jokes?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: did you stub your toe on the coffee table again?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: LISTEN, NO SANE SPECIES WOULD EVER THINK ABOUT PUTTING A SHARP-EDGED TABLE RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ‘LIVING ROOM’. WHAT THE FUCK IS WITH THAT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: IT IS INSANE. YOU’RE ALL FUCKING INSANE, YOUR PANS ARE ROTTED, AND I’M THE ASSHOLE WHO’S HERE DEALING WITH YOUR BULLSHIT BECAUSE THAT’S JUST MY FUCKING LOT IN LIFE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: aw, karkat. you know that’s not true.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: you have all those awful movies to cry over, too.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCK YOU, EGBERT. I HOPE YOU GET RAKED OVER LITERAL FUCKING COALS ON YOUR NEXT SHOW. BY GHOSTS, BECAUSE YOUR JOKES ARE SO BAD THEY KILLED THE ENTIRE GODDAMN AUDIENCE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: wow.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i'll give you credit for trying on that one?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: JESUS FUCK.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I’M STARTING TO SEE HOW YOU AND THE FUCKING ASSHOLE LALONDE LOCKED IN THE BASEMENT ENDED UP IN SUCH A SORDID PITCH MESS FOR SO LONG. YOU'RE BOTH FUCKING AWFUL.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: dude.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: don’t say it like that. you make it sound so much worse than it was.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: for one thing, i didn’t even KNOW it was pitch, or whatever. so like, jot that down.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: IS THAT SUPPOSED TO BE A COMEBACK.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: PLEASE TELL ME THAT’S NOT THE BEST THING YOUR PATHETIC BRAIN CAN OFFER AS A COMEBACK BECAUSE THAT IS *SO* FUCKING SAD, EGBERT. YOU DIDN'T KNOW?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: no!!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: bluh.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: it was just a whole thing and now it isn’t, okay?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: don’t make it weird, karkat.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: ME?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: MAKE SHIT WEIRD?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: HA.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: HAHAHAHAHA.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THAT’S LAUGHTER, EGBERT, SOMETHING YOU NEVER FUCKING HEAR AT YOUR SHOWS. OR THAT WEIRD ‘CANNED’ SHIT THEY HAVE ON TELEVISION, WHAT THE FUCK IS WITH THAT, TOO. YOU EITHER LAUGH OR THE FUCKING LAUGHSSASSINS GET YOU, IT'S NOT THAT GODDAMN DIFFICULT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: ANYWAY. THE POINT IS THAT *I* AM NOT THE ONE WHO MAKES THINGS FUCKING WEIRD.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I’M DEFINITELY NOT THE ONE WHO HAD A WHOLE FUCKING SEXUALITY CRISIS AND WENT FROM ‘I’M NOT A HOMOSEXUAL’ TO ‘I’M GOING TO FUCK DIRK GODDAMN CROCKER OF ALL PEOPLE AND THEN HE’S JUST GOING TO SHOW UP AND ALL MY FUCKING FRIENDS HAVE TO DEAL WITH HIM NOW BECAUSE I’M THAT MUCH OF AN INSENSITIVE DOUCHEWIPE AND A GODDAMN COWARD THAT I WON’T STAY AND DO IT MYSELF BECAUSE I’M SCARED HE’S GOING TO BE MEAN TO ME.’</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: ...hey.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: that’s not-</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: okay, look, it’s not my job to interrogate people or talk to them anyway, okay?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: and rose said i didn’t have to, so take it up with her!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: stop fucking getting on my case about him, karkat!! it’s ridiculous, like. yes he’s here now but did you ever think that maybe he wouldn’t talk to me or anything???</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: or like, i don’t know.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: that it’s a GOOD thing he showed up, and maybe i did something that’d really help?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: not even a fucking thanks from ANYONE about this! just ‘fuck you john and also you suck and you’re the worst person i've ever met and how dare you pretend otherwise’ all around!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: well, forget it!!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: and fuck you!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: &gt;:B</span><br/>
<span class="pesterlog">--- ectoBiologist [EB] is an idle chum! ---</span><br/>
</p><p>He slams his phone right the fuck down, because no, nope, John is not going to be dealing with that right now. The whole point of leaving was to clear his head and not deal with it! He knows he can’t stay gone forever, but he’d be lying if he said that the distance wasn’t helping, but now he’s here just. Thinking about it.<br/>
(It’d been a lot worse, knowing that he and Dirk were practically under the same roof, that it would literally take ten minutes and bypassing the sole person lingering outside the basement door in the name of security, to go and like. See him. Not that John wants to see him after that. Not that he wants to see John at all, apparently.)<br/>
“Ughhhh,” he groans out, and the empty room at least doesn’t judge him, which is more than he can say for being back at his room at Rose’s.<br/>
He doesn’t feel bad for snapping at Karkat. He doesn’t. Karkat gets to be angry, and a dick, all the time, and sure, John doesn’t do that because he doesn’t really like to, but. He’s allowed to. Healthy expressions of anger are normal for people, or whatever it is Rose likes to tell him when she thinks he’s being a little bit too carefree and casual.<br/>
His phone buzzes. That’s probably going to be Karkat answering, and John knows he’s not in any real state to apologize and mean it- and if he’s going to say sorry, he has to mean it, that’s something his dad taught him and something that he’s stuck to as best as he could. It’s probably the only lesson his dad taught him that he’s managed to stick to, and the thought fills his throat until he has to struggle to breathe around it.</p><p class="text">
</p><p class="block">
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT THE FUCK.</span><br/>
--- carcinoGeneticist [CG] has ceased pestering ectobiologist [EB]! ---<br/>
</p><p>The message on the screen glares at him, accusing, and John just turns his phone off. He’ll deal with it later- okay, probably because Karkat is not just going to let this go, and also because he has to stop dicking around and get ready for his set and, like. Actually leave his hotel room.<br/>
---<br/>
It’s not until hours later that he even gets a chance to look at it again, and he’s riding off the post-performance high, his cheeks still flushed with it and aching from smiling so hard. It’s the good kind of hurt, though.<br/>
The hotel room itself seems to have mellowed out, or at least John now finds its impersonality more relaxing than anything else. This was the whole point, after all. The only things that scream him about it are- okay, probably the half-made bed, because he always has the do not disturb sign on, and his suitcases. It smells like citrus- lemon, not orange, thanks- from the tea he’s made after the show. Honey and lemon in plain Lipton (well, as close to Lipton as they can really manage) green tea, just like his dad used to make him when he was younger. It helps when his throat is sore.<br/>
He takes a sip, nearly scalds his tongue and tries to ignore it, and unlocks his phone. Oh, jeez, there’s some messages.</p><p class="text">
</p><p class="block">
--- carcinoGeneticist [CG] has started pestering ectobiologist [EB]! ---<br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: ALRIGHT, SO.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I STILL DON’T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK THAT WAS</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: BUT I *GUESS* I CAN ADMIT I WENT OFF ON YOU. MORE THAN NECESSARY.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SO SORRY, OR WHAT THE FUCK EVER.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I DIDN’T THINK IT WAS LIKE THAT. I GUESS. FUCK, EGBERT, HOW DO YOU GET YOURSELF INTO SHIT LIKE THIS? A GODDAMN WRIGGLER WITH NO SENSE WOULD DO BETTER THAN YOU.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: BUT I *ALSO* GUESS I CAN’T FUCKING BLAME YOU BECAUSE IF ANYONE COULD GET SOMEONE’S PUMPER RUNNING PITCH, IT’S THAT SMUG BLONDE FUCK.</span><br/>
</p><p>Oh. Huh. That’s actually- kind of sweet? But also really confusing. John hesitates before replying; he doesn’t want this to escalate, even if he doesn’t really want to talk about Dirk that much. Except for how he does, and he also wants to grab Karkat by the front of the shirt and shake him until he gets the details, but like. That’s insane. That would be insane.<br/>
The ugly feelings from earlier are gone, washed away in the euphoria and satisfaction of a gig well done, and even when John pokes at them a bit, nothing happens. Okay, so he’s cool and good to answer, but he has to keep his cool. He can do that.</p><p class="text">
</p><p class="block">
<span class="john">EB: what?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: OH, SO YOU ONLY ANSWER WHEN I TALK ABOUT HIM?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH, YOU’RE HANDLING THIS BREAKUP REAL WELL.</span><br/>
</p><p>Like he said. He can keep his cool. Karkat is just being himself, and John knows how to handle that! They've been sort of friends for like, four years now. John's used to it.</p><p class="text">
</p><p class="block">
<span class="john">EB: it’s not a break up!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i don’t think.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: but that’s not the point! i just got done with a show, i wasn’t at my phone. total coincidence, i mean. when have you ever known me to like, pine?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: that’s dumb.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i don’t do that.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: RIGHT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: HOW THE FUCK COULD I FORGET THAT JOHN EGBERT DOESN'T FUCKING PINE LIKE THE REST OF US PEASANTS, BECAUSE HE'S TOO GOOD FOR ALL THAT ROMANCE SHIT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: also, was that an apology?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: ….TECHNICALLY.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: ha!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: guessing you talked to rose and she told you that i was right?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I MEAN, SHE SAID PLENTY OF THINGS BECAUSE LALONDE DOES NOT FUCKING KNOW HOW TO SHUT UP. DON’T TELL KANAYA I SAID THAT, I DON’T WANT TO END UP AS GRUBLOAF, BUT JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SHE GOES ON. AND THAT'S COMING FROM *ME.*</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SHE *ALSO* TOLD ME THAT I NEED TO BE FUCKING ‘SUPPORTIVE OF YOU IN THIS TIME OF NEED WHILE YOU’RE FRAGILE’ BECAUSE THAT’S HOW HUMANS WORK AND THAT'S HOW HUMAN FUCKING FRIENDSHIP WORKS. APPARENTLY YOUR MOIRAIL ISN'T THE ONLY FUCKING ONE WHO HAS TO BE INVOLVED IN THIS SHIT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SO IF YOU WANT TO TALK.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I’M HERE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: UGH.</span><br/>
</p><p>John has to stifle a smile there. Definitely sweet- way sweeter than Karkat would let himself be on a regular basis. The only thing is that John doesn’t really know what to do with it; that’s just not the kind of friends they are, and he’s been totally okay with it this whole time. It feels weird, to have the offer on the table. Not bad weird, though. Maybe it’s not a bad thing, to talk to Karkat about this.</p><p class="text">
</p><p class="block">
<span class="john">EB: wow.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: cost a lot to say that one, huh.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: DON’T EVEN FUCKING GET ME STARTED WITH YOUR INSUFFERABLE BULLSHIT HERE, EGBERT. I’M BEING NICE AND IT FUCKING SUCKS.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: you’re always secretly nice!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: but, thanks.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: it’s been kind of a lot to deal with.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: and honestly? i didn’t think things would end up this way.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WITH HIM?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: sort of?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i never really thought he’d, you know. agree to come with me.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: or that rose would decide to do a weird trial?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: or that he was rose’s secret brother??</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH, THAT ONE RATTLED MY FUCKING PAN.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: it rattled everyone’s.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i mean, rose had been kind of weird when i mentioned it before he came but i didn’t think that was why.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: in hind sight.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: it kind of is why.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: weird, right?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YOU HAVE NO GODDAMN IDEA.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: HE IS A FUCKING CARBON COPY OF HER BUT WORSE. IT’S FUCKING HORRIFYING, EGBERT, IT MAKES ME WANT TO POUR BLEACH IN MY GODDAMN SKULL AND SCRUB IT CLEAN OVER AND OVER TO ERASE THE MEMORY. I'D SHOVEL FIFTY FUCKING SOPOR SLIME PIES DOWN MY GULLET IF IT MEANT I DIDN'T HAVE TO WITNESS THAT SHIT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: he’s not that bad!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: okay, well. i didn’t think he looked that much like rose. or acted like her.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: PROBABLY FOR THE BEST.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SHE WOULD HAVE A WHOLE FUCKING LOT TO SAY ABOUT IT. ACTUALLY, IT’S LALONDE, AND HER BULLSHIT IS ON A WHOLE OTHER LEVEL, SO I FUCKING BET MY LAST BOONIE THAT SHE HAD A LOT TO SAY ABOUT IT ANYWAY.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: haha….yeah.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: except now it all seems different?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: at first it was just, oh, john, be careful with him, but get whatever information you can.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: and i was like, sure. i can do that.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: EGBERT, YOU DID NOT BRING IN A SINGLE FUCKING PIECE OF RELEVANT INFORMATION IN ALL YOUR TIME CANOODLING WITH THAT FUCKER IN THE OBLONG OFFAL.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: oval office?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: and we weren’t canoodling!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: it was very intense and hate-filled!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: and it wasn’t even in the office because he wouldn’t let me because he thought i'd like, steal state secrets even if i was blowing him under the desk.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: which i'd try to, but still.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: EGBERT, DO I LOOK LIKE I GIVE A SINGLE FLYING FUCK ABOUT ANY OF THAT SHIT?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THIS IS THE FUCKING OPPOSITE OF WHAT I CAME HERE TO KNOW. I WANT TO TAKE THIS SHIT AND CUT IT OUT OF MY FUCKING HEADSPONGE SO I DON’T NEED TO THINK ABOUT IT AGAIN. MY FUCKING ANGUISH BLADDER IS AT CAPACITY HERE. MY GANDERBULBS SHOULD BE FUCKING GOUGED OUT TO SPARE THE REST OF ME THIS SHIT. WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU SAY ALL THAT TO ME?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: uh. because you like the intense and hate-filled bit?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i know you’re curious.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NO THE FUCK I AM NOT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YOU CAN’T APPEAL TO MY ROMANTIC EXPERTISE HERE, EGBERT, BECAUSE THE THOUGHT OF YOU FUCKING ANYONE OR ANYTHING IS SO FUCKING REPULSIVE I HAVE TO VOMIT IMMEDIATELY. I HAVE A SENSE OF SELF-FUCKING-PRESERVATION AND ENOUGH BRAIN CELLS LEFT TO USE IT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NICE FUCKING TRY.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: why is it that you think i'm the one who doesn’t fuck?? why couldn’t it be him?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I’VE MET HIM.</span><br/>
<span class="pesterlog">He takes it back. This is actually the worst thing to happen. He’s never going to talk to Karkat about romance or anything ever again, he should’ve stuck to that stupid teasing promise he’d made ages ago. Younger John was right.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: karkat, what the fuck?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: EGBERT, I FUCKING TOLD YOU, HE COULD MAKE ANYONE SWAP BLACK FOR HIM THE SECOND HE OPENS HIS STUPID FUCKING MOUTH.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I KNOW BETTER, BECAUSE I’M NOT A FUCKING MORON, BUT GODDAMN, KNOWING THE FUCKING ASSHOLES HE WAS WORKING WITH, IT WOULDN’T BE A SURPRISE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: ...huh.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i don’t know!! i never thought about it, i guess, and now i have to keep thinking about it because you said it!</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT A FUCKING PITY. I’M SHEDDING A TEAR OVER HERE, EGBERT, AND I’M MAKING SURE TO WIPE IT AWAY BEFORE IT HITS THE KEYBOARD. I’M EVEN SNIFFLING, THAT’S HOW BAD I FEEL ABOUT IT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: pity, huh.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NO.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT??</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: JESUS FUCK, YOU CHOOSE *NOW* TO LEARN ABOUT THIS SHIT?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: LET ME SCHOOLFEED YOU BECAUSE A-FUCKING-PPARENTLY YOU CAN’T EVEN TELL BETWEEN TOTALLY PLATONIC PITY AND THE BURNING SOFTNESS OF REAL MATESPRITSHIP.</span><br/>
</p><p>Oh, Jesus. No offense meant to Karkat, but if John has to sit down through someone else explaining every bit of troll romance, he's going to lose it. Rose was bad enough, and half of that- okay, three quarters of it, was barely even relevant. Not that it wasn't cool, but he still is trying to wrap his head around it. And he kind of gets the feeling that whatever Karkat says is going to be, uh. A little bit too advanced for his understanding.</p><p class="text">
</p><p class="block">
<span class="john">EB: oh, no.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: no, you don’t need to do that.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: actually, do not do that at all.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: rose explained it already and i don’t need any more elaborated on.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: not about that, anyway.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i'm still kinda curious about what you said, with the pitch thing.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: OH. ABOUT CROCKER?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: yeah.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: about him being easy to hate.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: because, like. okay, he is definitely not an easy person to like! he’s smug and annoying and he has a face that’s so perfect it’s kind of freaky and definitely deserves a punch and he looks stupid good with a split lip.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCK. OKAY, I GUESS WE’RE TALKING ABOUT IT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SO, YEAH, SURE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: hey! you can’t just say that.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: you were thinking about punching his face in??</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NO.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: OKAY, NO MORE THAN I THINK OF PUNCHING EVERY SINGLE FUCKING ONE OF YOUR GODDAMN IDIOTS’ FACES IN EVERY WAKING MOMENT I’M FORCED TO INTERACT WITH YOU SHITSTAINS.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: LIKE I SAID, EGBERT. I HAVE FUCKING COMMON SENSE. I’M NOT GOING TO GET INTO ANY KIND OF BLACK FLING WITH HIM.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: BESIDES, IT WOULDN’T EXACTLY BE THE BEST SITUATION FOR IT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: yeah, i kind of figured.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: ARE YOU GOING TO SAY THAT’S BECAUSE ROSE FUCKING EXPLAINED IT TO YOU?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: BECAUSE HOLY FUCKING SHIT, I TRIED TO DRUM THIS INTO YOUR ROCK-HARD PAN SO MANY FUCKING TIMES.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: BUT SURE. FINE. WHY DO YOU FUCKING FIGURE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: he’s mad at me and thinks it was all some kind of a trap, i'm pretty sure?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: which it wasn’t!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: but, like. i get why he’d see it that way. only i can’t just walk up to him and say it isn’t.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: UNBELIEVABLE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THIS IS THE EXACT PLOT OF NO LESS THAN TWELVE FUCKING ROMANCE NOVELS. WERE YOU RIPPING THIS SHIT FROM KANAYA? IS THIS PART OF SOME ELABORATE PRANK YOU *THINK* IS GOING TO BE FUNNY BUT IS ACTUALLY REALLY FUCKING LAME BECAUSE YOU HAVE THE SENSE OF HUMOR AND COMEDIC TIMING OF A PAN-ROTTED LUSUS?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: now that’s just harsh! should i think that’s you pitch flirting with me?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NO.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: MY HATRED FOR YOU IS SO FUCKING PLATONIC THEY HAD TO NAME THAT BEARDED HUMAN PHILOSOPHER AFTER IT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i don’t think you were around for plato, but nice try.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: CHRIST. IT WAS SARCASM, NOOKSTAIN.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i'm just checking!! you do a lot of the hating things now that i know i actually have to look out for them. like, the insults, the banter, the teasing. the weird teaching moments.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: you’ve gotten a lot better with it, though.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCKSAKE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: …</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: hey, karkat?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NO.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NO, I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO FUCKING ASK, YOU NOSY PIECE OF SHIT, AND I’M NOT ANSWERING. I PLEAD WHATEVER THE FUCK IS LEFT OF YOUR FIFTH AMENDMENT AND I AM KEEPING MY GODDAMN TRAP SHUT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i think the fifth amendment is more of a honk if you’re guilty free-for-all, now.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: there’s a lot of honking in the constitution these days.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: did you ask him about that?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHY IN THE EVERLOVING FUCK WOULD I ASK HIM ABOUT THAT? WHY DIDN’T YOU ASK HIM IF YOU WANTED TO KNOW SO LONG?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SOMETHING HAD TO FUCKING PASS FOR PILLOW TALK.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: listen!</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YOU DID FUCKING ASK AND HE LAUGHED AT YOU, DIDN’T HE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WELL, FUCKING DESERVED. THAT’S THE STUPIDEST SHIT I’VE EVER HEARD, AND I PUT UP WITH SOLLUX ON A GODDAMN DAILY BASIS. I FUCKING SWEAR, HE HAS A WHOLE FUCKING HIVESTEM UP HIS NOOK SOMETIMES. THERE’S ONLY SO MANY PAPS ONE TROLL’S TOUCHFRONDS CAN GIVE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i don’t know what that means.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I FUCKING KNEW YOU WERE LYING ABOUT LALONDE EXPLAINING SHIT TO YOU.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: she did!!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: but she wasn’t telling me what people’s fingers were doing! that part wasn’t even close to relevant, okay?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: she was just explaining to me that i kind of got into it without knowing it had happened and then talked a bunch about pity.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: troll romance is weird.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT’S FUCKING WEIRD IS THAT HUMANS CAN OBVIOUSLY PARTICIPATE IN IT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NOT JUST CROCKER, HE DOESN’T FUCKING COUNT. HE HAS GODDAMN EYETEETH AND TALKS LIKE A HIGHBLOOD.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I MEAN YOU.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: me?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH, YOU, FUCKFACE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHATEVER YOU HAVE TO SAY ABOUT CROCKER, THERE IS NO FUCKING WAY HE FAILED TO LEARN THE MOST BASIC OF LESSONS ABOUT ALL THIS ROMANCE SHIT. FUCK KNOWS WHAT THEY WERE TEACHING *YOU* IN GRUBSCHOOL, BUT HE WAS FUCKING LEARNING.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YOU ONLY EVER FUCKING SAID THAT YOU WERE THE ONE WHO DIDN’T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHICH MEANS THAT HE DID, AND YOUR DUMB FUCKING ASS WAS SOMEHOW CONVINCING ENOUGH THAT HE THOUGHT HE WAS ACTUALLY QUADRANTED, ONLY FOR YOU TO REVEAL THAT YOU DON’T KNOW JACK FUCKING SHIT ABOUT ANYTHING.</span><br/>
</p><p>John knows that's exactly what happened, sure, but it doesn't make him feel any better about it. Instead, it makes his stomach churn. It's hard to tell himself that this is dumb teen romance drama bullshit that he's way too old for, given the stakes. Given what Dirk had said, about lying, about being tricked. He can't even tell Rose about that, not really, because she wouldn't get it. At least, he doesn't think she would; Rose is kind of ruthless in a way that John himself isn't, and that's why she's in charge, he knows that, but it doesn't make it easy. None of this is easy, and John doesn't know why he ever thought it would be. Even getting into it, he'd been warned. </p><p>He lets out a slow sigh, turns his attention back to the screen. He'll deal with all that later.</p><p class="text">
</p><p class="block">
<span class="john">EB: don’t put it like that.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i mean, you’re right, but it sounds bad.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YOUR LIFE IS A FUCKING ROMCOM.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: thanks, i hate it.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I HATE HEARING ABOUT IT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: GUESS YOU STILL WIN SINCE YOU FUCKING LIVE IT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: yeah.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: ...you know i wasn’t faking it, right.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: OF FUCKING COURSE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SINCE WHEN HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ABLE TO CONVINCINGLY LIE ABOUT ANY GODDAMN THING, EGBERT? YOU LOOK LIKE A WRIGGLER WHO GOT THEIR HAND STUCK IN THE GRUBTREATS JAR. CROCKER WOULD HAVE SPOTTED YOUR LYING ASS A MILE AWAY.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: and if, uh.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i didn’t,</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: ugh!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: never mind.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: this is dumb, sorry.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: you had actual stuff you wanted to talk about.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: CHRIST.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THAT WAS THE WORST FUCKING TRANSITION I’VE EVER SEEN.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: BUT I’M GOING TO BE A GOOD FUCKING PERSON AND PAY ATTENTION TO IT, OR WHATEVER.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: BUT *FOR THE RECORD.* IT WOULD BE FINE. FUCKED UP, BUT FINE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THE SHIT I HAD TO TALK ABOUT WAS HOW FUCKING INFURIATING HE IS TO DEAL WITH, BUT SINCE THAT’S BASICALLY WHAT WE’VE BEEN TALKING ABOUT ANYWAY, I’LL FIND A NEW FUCKING TOPIC.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHEN ARE YOU GETTING BACK?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: oh!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: haha, thanks, i guess. and like, believe me, i know. he’s insane, so good fucking luck!</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WOW. THANKS. THAT’S A VOTE OF FUCKING CONFIDENCE IF I EVER HEARD ONE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: sure is.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: anyway, i think i'm going to be back within a week or so?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: cc’s being weirdly quiet about dirk being gone, but i guess there’s not much to talk about, since he wasn’t one for public stuff anyway. not unless he kind of had to go.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: it’s still annoying.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: like, i can’t tell whether or not it’s because they’ve got a replacement or are trying to hush it up or don’t actually know that he’s with us?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH. IT’S BEEN A LONG-ASS TIME, TOO. NORMALLY THAT FUCKING BITCH BETTY DOESN’T WASTE A SINGLE GODDAMN SECOND, EVEN WHEN IT COMES TO THE LITTLEST PAWN IN HER NIGHTMARE CAKE WAREHOUSES.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WELL, I’M NOT GOING TO LOOK A GIFT HOOFBEAST IN THE FUCKING MOUTH BEFORE IT TRIES TO BITE MY FACE OFF. IF SHE’S NOT LOOKING AT *US*, I’M MORE THAN FUCKING HAPPY TO ACCEPT IT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: yeah.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: he did tell me he did a good job covering his tracks.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: HIS ESCAPE SOUNDS LIKE FIFTY FUCKING NIGHTMARES IN ONE, BUT YEAH. BASED ON WHAT HE SAID. I GUESS HE MUST FUCKING HAVE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: there’s not much else going on, though.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: but things have been kind of quiet for a while now?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: which rose was freaking out about.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH. SHE TELL YOU WHY?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: uh, no.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: you know how she is.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCKSAKE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH, I DO. GOD, WHAT THE FUCK IS THE BATTERWITCH FEEDING THEM TO MAKE THEM SO FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE TO DEAL WITH?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i mean, this is a thing you could ask him?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH, BUT CONSIDER THIS: I DON’T FUCKING WANT TO, AND I DON’T WANT TO KNOW, EITHER. IT WAS A RHETORICAL FUCKING QUESTION, NUMBNUTS.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: okay, fair, but still! why would i know that??</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YOU’RE THE ONE WHO SPENT LOADS OF TIME WITH HIM, I DON’T FUCKING KNOW.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i wasn’t going to eat anything there!! it’s all probably poisoned to fuck, anyway.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: GOD, DON’T EVEN FUCKING TELL ME. EVEN THE BRANDED SOPOR SHIT SHE SELLS IS FUCKING TERRIBLE. WORSE THAN THE LITERAL SLOP WE HAVE TO MAKE OUR OWN GODDAMN SELVES.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: AND THE FUCKING TAPWATER FAYGO DEBACLE IN DC??</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH. WHATEVER THE FUCK IS GOING ON IN HER HIVE IS PROBABLY A HUNDRED TIMES WORSE THAN WHAT WE GET.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: EVEN ON ALTERNIA, APPARENTLY SHIT WASN’T THIS FUCKING BAD. YEAH, YOU COULD GET FUCKING CULLED IN THE STREET BY SOME PSYCHOTIC HIGHBLOOD- AND I MEAN THAT PRETTY FUCKING LITERALLY, BY THE WAY, BECAUSE THEY’RE ALMOST ALWAYS INSANE THE HIGHER UP YOU GO-, BUT AT LEAST WE HAD REAL FUCKING WATER AND NOT WHATEVER THE FUCK PURPLE FAYGO IS MEANT TO BE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: that still sounds like it sucks.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NOT TO SAY THAT THIS PLACE IS A FUCKING CAKEWALK OR ANYTHING, BUT I AM FUCKING GLAD I MANAGED TO GET HERE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: DIDN’T THINK THERE WOULD BE A METRIC FUCKTON OF WEIRD EARTH-TROLLS AROUND TOO, BUT OF FUCKING COURSE THERE IS.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHY THE FUCK THE EMPRESS DECIDED TO STAY HERE IS FUCKING BEYOND ME. IF SHE WANTED TO LEAVE I AM PRETTY FUCKING SURE SHE COULD HAVE EVEN IF YOU PANLESS SPONGEFUCKS HAVEN’T FIGURED OUT INTERSTELLAR TRAVEL YET.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SHE COULD HAVE FUCKING MADE YOU AND THEN NONE OF US WOULD BE HERE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I DON’T KNOW IF IT’S MY SHIT LUCK OR FUCKING SOLLUX’S, BUT WE LEFT ALTERNIA AND FUCKING ENDED UP HERE, WHERE *SHE* WAS, SO THAT’S A FUCKING COINCIDENCE OF SOME KIND.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: AND OF FUCKING COURSE IT WAS LIKE THIS.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: yeeeeaaaah.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: not to say that we were that great at being in charge of ourselves, but. at least we were in charge of ourselves.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: this is just fucked up.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: and what’s worse is how many people were totally cool with it??</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: PLENTY OF FUCKERS ON ALTERNIA WERE COOL WITH IT, TOO.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: but you wouldn’t go back, right?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: AT LEAST HERE YOU ASSHOLES ARE TRYING TO FIGHT AGAINST IT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THE HEIRESS ON ALTERNIA IS DOING FUCK-KNOWS-WHAT BECAUSE SHE DOESN’T GODDAMN GET IT AND NOTHING ANYONE DOES TO EXPLAIN IT TO HER IS GETTING THROUGH HER BLUBBER-FILLED THINKPAN.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHO FUCKING KNOWS.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: MAYBE WE’LL WIN AND SHE’LL MAKE THAT SHITHOLE BETTER.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: okay, how are those two related?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: like.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: if you’re stuck and alternia is so far away- and yeah! i listened when you told me it was far away!</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: DID NO ONE EVER FUCKING EXPLAIN THIS TO YOU?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I *KNOW* I TOLD LALONDE THIS SHIT, BUT SHE’S FLIGHTY AS FUCK WHEN SHE WANTS TO BE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: to be fair, when we first started talking, i didn’t exactly believe you.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: you weren’t...nice.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT THE FUCK.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I AM THE PICTURE OF FUCKING NICETY WHEN IT COMES TO IDIOT HUMAN BOYS WITH THEIR HEADS UP THEIR FUCKING WASTECHUTES AND A BIZARRE FUCKING FLUSHCRUSH FOR NIC CAGE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i do NOT have a crush on nic cage!!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: and you were a dick :B</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: PUT YOUR FUCKING TEETH AWAY, DOUCHENOZZLE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: no!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: :B :B :B</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCKING WHATEVER.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SINCE APPARENTLY YOU WEREN’T LISTENING TO A SINGLE THING I SAID.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: hey, it’s not that i wasn’t listening, but i have no idea why you thought dropping the bomb of ‘betty crocker is an alien and so am i, and she’s from my planet and she’s here to destroy everything’ on me when i was in college and hungover was going to convince me of anything!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: she hadn’t even done the rebranding for real yet.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: AND YOU FUCKING BLOCKED ME AFTER BEING A DICK RIGHT BACK, ASSHOLE. DON’T THINK I DON’T REMEMBER THAT. AND GUESS WHO FUCKING CAME CRAWLING RIGHT BACK WHEN LALONDE WAS THE ONE TO GO TALK TO YOU THE YEAR AFTER, HUH?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THAT’S RIGHT, FUCKFACE. YOU.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: well, she made it sound sane. and she didn’t claim to be an alien!!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: that helped a lot.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I AM A FUCKING ALIEN.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WERE EXPECTING. YOU HAD NO FUCKING EXCUSE TO SCREAM LOUDER THAN SOMEONE FORCIBLY LOSING ALL THEIR FRONDS AND NUBS WHEN YOU SAW ME.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: is it better or worse to say that it was kanaya who made me scream?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCK YOU. BUT SHE WAS THE ONE WITH THE CHAINSAW.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: yeah.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: ANYWAY.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THE FUCKING POINT IS THAT YOU WEREN’T LISTENING.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: the chainsaw was loud?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: IT WASN’T EVEN FUCKING ON, YOU USELESS SHITHEEL.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT WE *SAID* WAS THAT IF THE FISHBITCH WANTED TO GET THE FUCK BACK TO ALTERNIA, SHE FUCKING WOULD HAVE. WHAT WE ALSO SAID WAS THAT THERE WAS A FUCKING DEADLINE FOR IT, TOO, BECAUSE OF THE HEIRESS THERE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: you did mention her, yeah.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WOW, HE FUCKING LISTENS.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I’M NOT GOING TO SCHOOLFEED YOU SHIT ABOUT THE HEMOSPECTRUM BECAUSE EVEN YOU HAVE TO KNOW ABOUT THAT BY NOW.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THE FUCKING POINT IS THAT THERE’S ONLY EVER TWO TYRIANS AT ONCE, AND BEFORE NOW, THE FUCKING BATTERWITCH HAS BEEN ABLE TO COME BACK AND KILL EVERY SINGLE FUCKING ONE WHEN THEY CHALLENGE HER. OR BEFORE, IF SHE WAS QUICK. FUCK KNOWS HOW MANY GOT CULLED AS WRIGGLERS OR GRUBS.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: BUT NOW SHE’S STUCK ON THIS FUCKING BACKWATER PLANET AND INTENT ON MAKING IT HER OWN, AND SHE’S DOING A DAMN GOOD JOB DESPITE ALL OUR BEST FUCKING EFFORTS.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I’M NOT GOING TO SAY THAT THE AIRHEAD BACK HOME IS ANY FUCKING BETTER, BUT DON’T TELL CAPTOR I SAID THAT, HE WAS NURSING A RED CRUSH THE SIZE OF THE FUCKING SUN FOR HER BEFORE WE MANAGED TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF DODGE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: IT WAS FUCKING RIDICULOUS DRAMA BETWEEN HIM AND HER MOIRAIL OVER WHO WAS GOING TO BE FLUSH WITH HER. I HAD TO GET THE FUCKING GRUBCORN, THE FUCKER EVEN USED THE CLASSIC ‘GO PITCH WITH THE ROMANTIC RIVAL SO THE FLUSHCRUSH IS FORCED TO GO ASHEN AND MEDIATE, DISRUPTING THE QUADRANTS FOR EVERYONE’ MOVE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: uh.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: that’s a classic?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i think that’s a bit advanced for my understanding.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YES, IT’S A FUCKING CLASSIC FOR A REASON, AND IT WORKS, BECAUSE DESPITE ALL THE SHITTY RULES AGAINST QUAD SMEARING, A STABLE QUARTET OR TRIPLET OR WHAT THE FUCK EVER WILL VACILLATE LIKE HELL NO MATTER WHAT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: ESPECIALLY IF FUCKING SOLLUX IS IN IT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: HOW HE SWAPS FROM FLUSH TO PITCH FOR SOMEONE FASTER THAN YOU GO FOR THE NEAREST SHITTY FUCKING GHOSTBUSTERS VCR IN A TEN MILE RADIUS IS BEYOND ME. BUT HE FUCKING DOES IT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: right.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: and this is important?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YES, IT’S FUCKING IMPORTANT. DON’T RUSH ME, JACKASS.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: jeez, fine!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i'm just not sure that sollux’s romantic exploits are like, relevant. at all.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NOT YET.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: what’s that supposed to mean?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THEY’RE FUCKING RELATED TO HOW WE GOT OUT OF THERE, ASSWIPE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: oh.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: oh!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: that’s fine, then.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT DID YOU THINK I MEANT?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: nothing. keep going, tell me how the love triangle went.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: LISTEN, IT WASN’T A FUCKING TRIANGLE, UNLESS THE EDGES WERE SCHRODINGER’S INSANE FLICKERING OF TEENY TWITTERPATED BULLSHIT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: BUT SHE WAS FLUSHED FOR HIM TOO, WHICH WAS SWEET AND ALL, IF SHE WASN’T A FUCKING HEIRESS AND HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A BATTERY. AND JUST BECAUSE HER LUSUS HAD KEPT HER SAFE SO *FAR* DOESN’T MEAN THAT IT WAS GOING TO KEEP FUCKING DOING THAT, RIGHT?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: uh, right.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: DON’T FUCKING INTERRUPT ME, YOU KNOW WHAT A RHETORICAL QUESTION IS. JESUS FUCK, NO WONDER HUMANS ARE SO GODDAMN SLOW ABOUT DOING *ANYTHING.*</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: &gt;:B</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SHE HELPED US SNEAK ONTO A SHIP, AND HER ASSHOLE MOIRAIL- OR EX-MOIRAIL, BECAUSE THERE WAS NO FUCKING WAY THOSE TWO WERE STAYING TOGETHER AFTER THIS SHIT, I’LL BET MY LAST FUCKING CAEGAR ON IT- PITCHED IN TO PULL SOME STRINGS. I WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE THERE, BUT YOU FUCKING BET I WASN’T GOING TO STAY THERE AND DIE BEFORE MY LAST PUPATION.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: LIKE HELL WAS I GOING TO BE A THRESHSECUTIONER WITH RED FUCKING BLOOD.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: IT WAS DUMB WRIGGLER SHIT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCK, I WASN’T EVEN GOING TO BE ABLE TO FILL A GODDAMN *BUCKET* DURING DRONE SEASON WITHOUT BEING A DEAD FUCKING GIVEAWAY. EMPHASIS ON THE FUCKING DEAD PART, BY THE WAY.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: A COUPLE OF OUR OTHER FRIENDS TAGGED ALONG. KANAYA, TEREZI, THAT BITCH VRISKA. GAMZEE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SHIT WENT THE FUCK DOWN ON THE SHIP,  LARGELY THANKS TO THOSE LAST TWO NOOKSTAINS. THAT HUGE BITCH WAS ALWAYS GOING TO BE A PAIN IN THE SHAMEGLOBES BUT THIS WAS WAY WORSE THAN ANY OF US HAD FUCKING IMAGINED.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: that’s it? shit went down??</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YES, THAT’S FUCKING IT, BECAUSE THEY’RE NOT THE FUCKING POINT OF THE STORY, EGBERT. JESUS.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: okay, okay. fine!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: are you sure i can’t ask any questions?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YES, I AM COMPLETELY FUCKING CERTAIN. I DON’T WANT TO HEAR SHIT ABOUT IT FROM YOU.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: ….okay, jeez.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THE *MAIN* FUCKING POINT IS THAT WE WIPED OUT ON THIS PLANET BECAUSE IT SEEMS TO BE A FUCKING BLACK HOLE WHEN IT COMES TO ALTERNIAN TECH, APPARENTLY, OR THAT’S JUST OUR SHITTY FUCKING LUCK, AND WE REALIZE THAT NOT ONLY ARE WE *NOT* THE ONLY FUCKING TROLLS AROUND, BUT THAT THE HEAD BITCH WHO FUCKED OUR PLANET OVER TO BEGIN WITH WAS HERE READY TO DO THE SAME TO THIS ONE. AND ALSO THAT THE FUCKING *CLOWNS* THAT WERE HER PERSONAL GUARD *SOMEHOW* MANAGED TO SURVIVE THE WHOLE FUCKING DEAL TOO, BECAUSE YOU CAN’T KEEP THOSE FUCKERS DOWN.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: god, they’re just the worst.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: but i guess between you and rose, you put everything together. or like, that’s what she told me before we met? not me and her, me and you. she went all ‘and these are the invaluable contributors’ or whatever. probably to get me to chill.</span><br/>
</p><p>John can still remember it, walking into a room to find famous author Rose Lalonde sitting there with not one, but three whole trolls, all of whom looked really fucking angry, and a lot more feral than the other trolls around, which. Really hadn't been good for John's nerves at the time. One was even holding a chainsaw, which was way overkill if you asked him, and he's maybe still a little bit nervous around Kanaya these days even if he knows she probably won't slice him into tiny bits with it. Some first impressions are hard to get over, okay?</p><p>He is, grudgingly, glad that he got over his first impression of Karkat. Not that he's ever going to actually admit it, but they're pretty good friends by now. Not that Karkat would ever admit it either, to be fair, but John's honestly grateful that he's got someone to talk to about this kind of thing. Even if he's now starting to realize that there's still plenty about Karkat that he didn't know. God, isn't that just the theme of his whole life, right about now? But- okay, in his defense. Karkat had kind of shouted him down a lot of the times he'd asked something remotely personal, so he figures that this one maybe isn't all his fault. And Karkat hasn't actually lied to him or anything like that, or accused him of being a filthy fucking liar. Ugh. He shoves that right out of his brain for now and focuses on the conversation at hand.</p><p class="text">
</p><p class="block">
<span class="karkat">CG: IT SURE DIDN’T FUCKING WORK.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: well, no.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: but she tried, at least? and you didn’t exactly help the situation.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH. BUT IT WAS DUMB FUCKING LUCK WE ENDED UP RUNNING INTO HER SO SOON. BUT IF SHE’S FUCKING *HERE* THEN SHE ISN’T BACK ON ALTERNIA. AND IF WE GET RID OF HER HERE, MAYBE SOMEONE’S KICKED SENSE INTO THE PEIXES AND HER BULLSHIT REFORMS WILL ACTUALLY WORK. YOU KNOW. SINCE HER PSYCHOTIC ANCESTOR WON’T COME HUNT HER THE FUCK DOWN FOR SPORT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: LALONDE EXPLAINED A LOT OF SHIT TO ME. AND FUCK IF IT WASN’T GOOD TO KNOW I HADN’T JUST SHOWED UP ON A PLANET FULL OF FUCKING WEIRD, MUTANT TROLLS.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: AND THAT WAS THE DAY MY FUCKING MIGRAINE KICKED IN AND IT’S ONLY GOTTEN WORSE SINCE I’VE MET MORE OF YOU SORRY FUCKING SHITHEADS.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: CROCKER IS THE FUCKING WORST.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: to be fair, you’ve never met his brother.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: still, that’s pretty heroic of you. joining up to try and make things better.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCK YOU FOR REMINDING ME *THAT* JACKASS IS WALKING AROUND. IF MY LUCK HOLDS, I’LL NEVER HAVE TO FUCKING MEET HIM, AND YOU CAN BET MY ASS IS STAYING RIGHT IN LALONDE’S FUCKOFF BIG HIVEBLOCK FOR US SO I DON’T FUCKING HAVE TO RISK RUNNING INTO HIS IDIOTIC FUCKING MUG.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: yeah.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: HUH.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: what?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YOU’RE NOT GOING TO SHIT ON ME FOR EXAGGERATING OR BEING FUCKING DRAMATIC?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: no?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i've met him.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: and, like. okay, we’ve agreed that dirk’s pretty hateable, but that guy’s just gross. if i had the option i'd probably stick around too just to avoid him.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: also, you still didn’t answer my question, i guess.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I GAVE YOU A FUCKING COMPREHENSIVE BACKSTORY, DIPSHIT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: no, but like.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: okay, you said that you wouldn’t want to go back to alternia because it was worse, right?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: but then you just explained that if we win, it might not actually be worse.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: so, would you still go?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WITH WHAT FUCKING SHIP?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i don’t know, the one she came on? there’s probably something you could build- okay, okay. fine. it’s just a hypothetical then.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: if you could, and you know, you had a ship, and it was all good and fine. would you?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NO.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: oh.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: …</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: …you like it here, don’t you.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCK YOU AND THE MAMMAL LUSUS WHO BIRTHED YOU.</span><br/>
--- carcinoGeneticist [CG] has blocked ectobiologist [EB]! ---<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Alright, we're rolling onwards.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are times when Dirk has wished he’s kept his mouth shut. Few and far between, sure, and usually followed up by enough of an ordeal that he regrets it a whole lot more afterwards. This- is different.</p><p>He doesn’t think he likes that it’s different. In some ways, it might be worse- while he always knew the consequences when he spoke out of turn, or misjudged his position (an occurrence that happened less and less around Mother, while the inverse was true of Dave), and they were carried out swiftly and mercilessly, before he forgot what, exactly he was being punished for, here, it’s not like that.</p><p>Here, there’s just the quiet, and the solitude, and the slow erosion of his sanity as he goes absolutely bugfuck crazy trying to puzzle out what they’re deciding on. Whether it was a test that he failed (he doubts this very much), whether it was just a fiasco, whether they’re going to change their mind and throw the whole deal out.</p><p>That, he has to admit, is unlikely; he might have cornered Lalonde into it, but there’s no doubt she left him enough openings so she could assess what it was he could do. That, and while the rest of them might have qualms about using him for information or as a hostage- or, as Egbert demonstrated, extracting that information- she doesn’t. She knows it’s too valuable to go to waste, and so he knows she’s likely to push for him to be given a second chance. And if she asks why, and what happened, he can tell her.</p><p>He <em>was</em><span> being provoked, after all, and he knows they saw it just as well as he did. Whether or not they also think he should have been the bigger person is another question. It sits heavy in his throat. </span></p><p>The point is that he’s been left alone for a good while (three days, by his count, and while he still has yet to see the light of day or find some way to mark the passage of time short of caving to the cliché and scratching lines into the walls), and it is making him- concerned. Not antsy, not nervous. Just concerned as to whether he’s pushed too hard, too fast. It’s difficult to tell whether or not he’s made a mistake, when no one has actually told him how he’s expected to act. Certainly, they’d let him get away with more than he might have expected, but the thing is that Dirk doesn’t <em>know</em><span> how to read these trolls. They don’t have any of the tells he’d learned from Mother, or other seadwellers, or for the clowns, or even for the few blue and tealbloods that he’d seen around. </span></p><p>In his defense, he’s never met a mutantblood like that, or a battery that could talk. Or a jadeblood.</p><p>(He’d never tell Mother this, but based on what she looks like, and based on what the Earth-hatched trolls look like, he suspects that somewhere along the way, whatever her original source for their genetic material was, something’d gone wrong. The juggalos look mostly the same, but it’s hard to tell, even under the greasepaint. The adults are a world apart from the younger ones, and these three look distinctly sharper.)</p><p>There’s plenty he has to stew on, to say the least, and Dirk is really starting to despise the concept of free time, and being alone with his thoughts. It was never a problem before.</p><p>
  <span>(And oh, he’s not ready to think about why that is, but he knows, he </span>
  <em>knows</em>
  <span> it wasn’t just the TiaraTop she was using to keep them in check.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s doing his best to </span>
  <em>not</em>
  <span> think, instead devoting himself to the limited stretches he can run through in this cramped space. It’s- not ideal, but the physical grounding helps.</span>
</p><p><span>U</span>ntil his focus breaks. Because there’s footsteps outside his cell, which is becoming more and more obviously makeshift the moor he looks at it, and he’s forced to admit that perhaps, somewhere, he’d made a mistake.</p><p>Dirk isn’t entirely sure that he wants to meet Roxy Lalonde, but it turns out that he has absolutely no choice in the matter, because he opens his eyes to the sound of footsteps in the hallway, and by the time he’s sitting upright, she’s just there, right in view.</p><p>She doesn’t introduce herself, but Dirk knows who she is instantly. How could he not? She looks like Rose, but she looks more like Dave.</p><p>No, that’s not right either. She looks more like the Dave that Lalonde must have known, Dave-before-she-left, Dave-before-Dirk. Dave, if he’d been able to leave; Dave softer, Dave female and with pink eyes and wary kindness behind them and a smile with ever-so-slightly crooked teeth that’s made better for the lack of dental perfection. It’s more organic, that’s for sure. More human, if he dares to say it. It’s the kind of flaw that Mother would never have allowed, and it niggles at him. But perhaps it’s the flaw Mother might have overlooked thanks to her eyes- this is the Heiress she’d wanted, in the flesh, and the resentment he might have expected to feel doesn’t hit at all.</p><p>It makes something in his chest clench tight. This is what Lalonde left for, a future where this girl could smile like that. <strike>A future where she wouldn’t be like him.</strike> It’s a calculated move on her part, but Dirk finds it terribly difficult to begrudge her when faced with the girl in question.</p><p>“Hello,” he says. He wishes he’d had warning about this, but then again, that would’ve defeated the purpose of catching him off guard. Still, he’d rather his hair be in less disarray.</p><p>“Hi,” she says back. He can tell that she’s unsure about this, clearly uncomfortable around him. Dirk can hardly blame her for it.</p><p>“We can just stare at each other in silence for five minutes, and you can tell Lalonde I was sullen and uncooperative,” he offers, on impulse. A dangerous thing, normally, but- well. If she’s here because she doesn’t want to be, there’s no need for the both of them to suffer. “Might be easier that way.”</p><p>She snickers, a shockingly bright sound that breaks the silence. Dirk has…absolutely no idea what to do with that, and he dislikes the fact.</p><p>“No- I mean, ‘s fine, really. Like, this was never going to be easy? You’re my long-lost brother, I guess, but also evil, but apparently <em>not</em> evil?” she frames it like a series of questions, as opposed to a bizarre statement that glosses over a whole lot of what actually happened.</p><p>“If I’m not evil, then I have a <em>lot</em> of bones to pick about my current lodgings,” he says, faintly. “Are you sure you don’t want to go the sullen and uncooperative route? I promise I’m excellent at it.”</p><p>Another laugh, though Dirk’s more comfortable with the sound now. He still isn’t sure, exactly, what he said is so funny, but her laughter doesn’t set him on edge like Dave’s does.</p><p>“I’m sure you are, John used to complain a <em>lot</em> about you,” she confides. She moves to sit down on the floor, and Dirk does the same, scooting forward until he’s facing her and there’s just the bars between them. He still dislikes them, but he can see her well enough, and the degree of separation between them makes it more acceptable.</p><p>He wants to ask what Egbert had said about him, more than anything. He recognizes this for the weakness that it is, and doesn’t. If it was his business before, it certainly isn’t now, not after Dirk had chased him out of this cell not even a week ago. He hasn’t seen the other since, and as good a riddance as it may be, it’s left him very aware of how alone he is here. It doesn’t matter, though. They’ll keep their word, Lalonde has them all under her spell, and his <em>debriefings</em>, such that they are, have been curt and polite.</p><p>He’s conducted himself accordingly, of course. He won’t simply be rude for the sake of discomfiting someone, especially not when they can make his life much more difficult than it needs to be. Especially not when his mere presence already does the job for him.</p><p>His reputation has preceded him, but it hasn’t reached as far as Roxy Lalonde. He finds that interesting.</p><p>“Oh-,” she snaps her fingers, as if having forgotten something, and Dirk simply tilts his head to the side and waits. He’s used to tangents and rambling, more than he’d like, and Roxy’s are likely to be much less gruesome or insulting than Dave’s. More than that, there’s something about her that’s instantly warm and endearing, and Dirk understands, perhaps, why Mother took such offense to the theft of this child. She would’ve been a good Heiress, he thinks.</p><p>(But this suits her better, he also thinks. Traitorously, blasphemously.)</p><p>“I’m Roxy. Shoulda said that sooner. I mean, y’prolly already <em>know</em> and all that, given that me ‘n momma look a lot alike, but. Yeah. That’s me. Roxy Lalonde.”She’s nervous, and Dirk resists the urge to tell her she doesn’t have to do this. She <em>does</em> have to, and he’s not the one forcing her.</p><p>“You two do look alike,” Dirk says simply, and leaves Dave out of it. “I’m Dirk. You already know who I am too, but that’s more because I suspect my presence here has caused some kind of an uproar. And you might have been at the trial. But even if you weren’t, I’m sure my name was well-known, along with the more unpleasant implications attached to it. Unfortunately, in current circumstances, I’ll admit that the reality is far less impressive.”</p><p>“Weeeeell,” she draws the word out, giving him a strange look. “A cell kinda does that, I think? I’m sure you were real scary outside of it, but Iunno. You’re not that much older than me, right?”</p><p>“You’re- 23, yes?” he waits for her to nod confirmation before he continues. “We’re the same age, then. Give or take some days, at least; I don’t actually know when your infant form was generated, but it was close to mine.”</p><p>He sees her mouth the words ‘infant form was generated’, like it’s a difficult concept. He doesn’t think it is, for her. She’d have been made to be just as smart as him, if not more so, and even without that, he doubts that Lalonde would’ve let her education be lacking. “You mean like, a test tube baby?”</p><p>“Essentially. You’re familiar with ectobiology, right? It’s esoteric in terms of how human reproduction works; I think it’s used mostly to generate new crop and animal varieties, these days, and if I remember right, it was a technology Mother was toying with developing back on Alternia, but it wasn’t one that ever came to fruition to replace the organic cycle, there.” He waits for another nod. “Right. So it was more…a baby generated from ectobiological sludge with a specifically designed, Company trademarked genetic makeup. And then another baby with a slightly different design, but still trademarked. Lalonde might know more about this than me, though,” he adds, considering it for a moment. “That project was discontinued after us. Too many resources, not enough benefit from it.”</p><p>Dirk doesn’t bother wondering if he’s saying too much; Lalonde wouldn’t have sent the girl in if she thought there was information Dirk would reveal that she didn’t already know. This isn’t particularly sensitive information, either. It’s obsolete by two decades.</p><p>“Huh. So I’m really mom’s…sister?” Roxy asks, in the uncertain voice of someone trying a new idea on for size.</p><p>“Both our genomes have more in common with hers than they do Dave’s, I believe,” Dirk answers. For all that Dave likes- had liked- to harp on about Dirk’s inferiority, they’d both known the truth of design. But then, maybe he’d been right after all; loyalty, apparently, hadn’t run in Dirk’s DNA. It makes him sick to think about. “But you don’t share a parent with her to make her your sibling in the same sense. Think of her as the prototype and yourself as the finished project.”</p><p>“That’s…a really weird way to think about it, but I guess it helps, yeah.” She chews on her lower lip, still clearly thinking about it. “I mean, she did raise me, so she’s still my mom in that sense, but genetically-,” Roxy breaks off, wiggling one hand in a vague gesture. “It’s real weird, el oh el.”</p><p>Dirk has never met someone who decided to use that sort of internet slang in person, verbally, before, and he decides that it’s completely ridiculous, but that it suits her.</p><p>“And I guess it makes you more my brother than anything else, too,” she adds, like it’s a nothing throwaway comment. Maybe it is. But Dirk has never been able to afford the luxury of giving anyone the benefit of the doubt. So that’s the game that Lalonde wants to play, is it?</p><p>“An even stranger way to think of it.” Dirk shrugs, uncomfortable with the prospect of another sibling. He already has Dave; that’s more than enough. “Had you stayed, we likely would have been close given our ages, but I suspect I’d have had more a role to play as your bodyguard of sorts in addition to any political duties. But Lalonde took you, and so we were never socialized as siblings, so I’m going to have to use some real executive power here and veto that one, no offense.”</p><p>“Mmm. No, no, you’re right. Sibs is <em>weird</em> when we don’t know each other at all. Uh, how about, like- cousins, or something? Distant family, where you don’t see each other all that often, but you can always be close with them later on, right?” The suggestion is almost hopeful, and Dirk is of course immensely suspicious of it. It isn’t as if they need to soften him up with any kind of a good cop/bad cop routine, so he doesn’t understand the point. But there has to be one.</p><p>“I don’t know how cousins work,” he says, awkward. “I mean. I know that they’re your parents’ siblings’ children. But beyond that- what do cousins <em>do</em> exactly? Beyond, apparently, talk about potentially distressing topics while one is sitting in a cell.”</p><p>“Why do you think <em>I</em> know how cousins work?” Roxy asks, raising an eyebrow. Her nails are pink, and she taps them idly against the floor, and Dirk’s mouth goes dry. <em>Click, click, click.</em></p><p>“You had a vastly different upbringing,” he says, automatic. They’re the wrong shade of pink. Bubblegum bright, not tyrian royal. <em>Click, click.</em></p><p>“True enough! Mom was, like, pretty strict, ’n I didn’t really get why at first? ‘Course, I do now, so,” she trails off, with a slightly forced laugh. <em>Clickclickclickclick. </em></p><p>Strict, she says. Somehow, Dirk doubts that Lalonde has the same exacting standards as their own Mother, but then again, everyone does become their monster. Or marries their parent. Hardly forgiving, either way.</p><p>“I’m sure she just had your best interests at heart,” he manages to say.</p><p>“Oh- yeah, no doubt about that!” Roxy chirps out, nodding along vehemently. “Like, I didn’t get it back then and all but she sat me down ‘n explained a lot, and then I went and did my own looking in the ol’ servers, and- okay, sure, I’ve been doing more than just <em>lookin’</em>, but no one else was doin’ anything all that great with ‘em, so I thought why not try ‘n help out when I can, ‘cause Mom still doesn’t want me to do anything <em>really</em> useful, even though I can-,”</p><p>And that’s enough to distract him from his mounting discomfort.</p><p>“Wait,” Dirk interrupts, blinking behind his shades. Looking in the servers- he knows who she is. “<em>Fuck.</em> You’re nyanhaxx.”</p><p>Now that’s what takes her <em>really</em> by surprise, Dirk can see it. Of course it would be her; none of his intel had suggested that this organization had anyone capable of that level of programming, but she wouldn’t have been on any intel. Lalonde would’ve protected her daughter; Roxy would’ve been as hidden as possible.</p><p>“Hollup,” she says, narrowing her eyes. Her nails stop clicking, and instead she points an accusatory finger his way. He notices belatedly that there’s a clumsy outline of a cat’s head on her index finger, black against pink, with three white dots that he thinks are meant to be eyes. “You’re- Timaeus? I thought that was just some regular engineer- oh em gee, <em>what</em>?”</p><p>“Are you surprised that I can code, or that I was doing a good job of keeping you out?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>“<em>Puh-leeze</em>,” she shakes her head, all bright smiles. “You didn’t keep me out the first time, and that’s the one that matters, ain’t it?”</p><p>“What? Absolutely not. I wasn’t even involved the first time, I just had to upgrade the firewall after you left it in shreds and replaced all the image files with cat gifs.”</p><p>“I had to upgrade my prankster’s gambit somehow,” she says, tongue-in-cheek and all too pleased. “John’s real stiff competition on that account, y’know. Gotta keep him on his toes.”</p><p>“Ha. Well, if Mother hadn’t been so furious, I’d have found it absolutely hilarious,” he confesses. The words taste like ash in his mouth, but everything has, since he’d left. He chokes them out anyway. He ignores the comment about Egbert entirely; just thinking about him leaves a bad taste in Dirk’s mouth, and he’s not going to indulge any attempts at fishing for information. Even if he doesn’t think that’s what this is. “So, in retrospect- it was absolutely fucking hilarious.”</p><p>“I got good taste in meowcat pics, don’tcha worry, Dirky,” Roxy tells him with a wink. “Wonk.”</p><p>“Wink?” Dirk’s sure he heard that wrong.</p><p>“Wonk.”</p><p>“What the fuck’s a wonk?”</p><p>“Y’know, a wonk,” she repeats, winking harder. Dirk just stares for a moment. She’s completely incomprehensible. She’s insane.</p><p>“Let’s go back to talking about computers.”</p><p>“Real smooth convo switch there,” she teases, but- it’s clear that she doesn’t mind that at all. It’s safe ground for the both of them, after all. And while Dirk is under no illusions as to how far his particular brand of charisma extends (i.e., not very, when it comes to extended conversations and small talk), they manage to keep it going. He was right when he’d said that she was smart, but Dirk’s never been able to speak with someone like this face-to-face, have them keep up. Have them <em>challenge </em>him, push on points and pick up on weaknesses in design or logic. It’s not a debate, or an argument, but it’s better than any conversation he’s had in a long, long time, and he gets caught up in it. But so does she.</p><p>Enough that they’re both startled when someone comes by with his dinner (slop, probably with spit or worse in it, though he chokes it down anyway, and is grateful that he can no longer taste it. He needs to keep his strength up in case anyone with keys decides to move beyond subtle annoyances), because neither of them noticed the time passing. That’s new for Dirk, he’s not sure it’s new for her.</p><p>He’s still somewhat in shock about it after she leaves, and his cell seems too quiet without her there.</p><p>(Part of him thinks that she must be lonely, too, and instead of crushing this under his heel, he tucks it away to be examined later.)</p><p>------</p><p>John nearly jumps out of his skin, when there’s a knock at his door. He’s only been back for a day, and he’s exhausted, and he still feels restless, like he could wear the carpet in his room here down by just pacing in it.</p><p>“Come in,” he says anyway, because- it might be important? Probably? And he’s not just going to tell someone to go away.</p><p>Still, he’s surprised to see that it’s <em>Roxy</em> who peeks in, a small smile on her face.</p><p>“Hi,” she says.</p><p>“Oh, hey, Rox,” John greets her. He’s honestly surprised that she’s come to visit- he and Roxy are friends, sure, but it’s not that usual for her to drop by his room. Actually, it’s not that usual for anyone to drop by here, but that’s mostly because John literally only uses this little apartment space in the complex to sleep.</p><p>“You look awful,” she tells him with a grin, plopping onto his couch. It creaks a bit under her weight- it’s not the most comfortable thing around.</p><p>“Wow, you come here, into my house, and you insult me? The disrespect.”</p><p>“Technically, my mom’s the one who owns this whole place,” Roxy informs him brightly. “So I’m set to inherit, and I’mma be a real shitty landlord and boot you out prematurely. Mom’ll let me, especially if I ask her after you’ve done something <em>real</em> dumb.”</p><p>“Unbelievable. I work with her for years, I befriend her daughter, I make so many sacrifices for this cause, and she kicks me out to die.” It’s dramatic, but it’s- fun, John has to admit.</p><p>“What? You have like, two other houses you actually live in, it’s not like you don’t have anywhere to go,” Roxy says. She sticks her tongue out at him for good measure, the kind of thing that Rose doesn’t like her doing. John hasn’t really seen the point in that, so he just flips her off in return.</p><p>“But, like. The <em>emotional</em> damage, Rox,” he says, sincere as he could make it. “My best friend’s daughter, kicking me out of her mom’s house? That’s rough. That’s real rough.”</p><p>“That sounds like one of your bits,” she snickers. “What’s the punch line?”</p><p>“I get Oscar the Grouch as a roommate in a trashcan,” he suggests. It’s a bit too absurdist for his particular brand, but it’s still kind of funny, and he gets a whole giggle out of her. “But, anyway. What’s up? Did I miss something important? Did your mom tell you to come get me?”</p><p>“Oh- um. No,” Roxy says immediately. She even shakes her head for emphasis. But John knows her pretty well by now, and the way she’s fidgeting, picking at the corners of her nailpolish, reeks of guilt. It’s- suspicious. “I can’t come visit?”</p><p>“You <em>can</em>, you just normally don’t. Especially not when I’ve just gotten back from LA,” he points out. “And, like. I’m beat, let me tell you. I had <em>four</em> gigs and then a bunch of meetings your mom couldn’t get to herself, it was so tiring, but the clean water stuff is going pretty well- not,” he catches himself, “That I want to bore you with all of that.”</p><p>“Right.” There’s a beat of silence, there, and Roxy looks awkward for a moment. “I mean, that’s great? And I’m sure Mom’ll be really happy with it, too. But it’s, um. <em>Not </em>exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”</p><p>There’s very few things that John thinks are urgent enough for Roxy to actually look for him, and none of them are currently going on, since there’s no alarms or anything going off. He has a bad feeling about this.</p><p>“O…kay, then. What is it? Please don’t tell me you have a crush. Not- like. That it’s bad to have one, but-,”</p><p>But, he’s definitely not prepared to deal with it, in the slightest. He didn’t even know he was dating the last person he dated, and he didn’t notice it until he got dumped, and also that person is actually a war criminal to the nth degree, probably, and hates him. And not even in the hot sexy way that they’d been doing okay with before. And the person before that was, like. Barely a relationship, and now she’s being some kind of weird pirate somewhere far from John, which he’s actually kind of relieved about.</p><p>“It’s not! Like, okay, sure, he’s hot, but that’s not what’s going on, okay?” Roxy’s looking at him, her eyes wide and earnest.</p><p>“Wait, who’s hot? That’s not convincing me on the crush thing.”</p><p>Oh, boy. Her guilty look ramps up.</p><p>“It’s- Dirk. Crocker? The dude in the basement cell thing?”</p><p>John swears that his heart stops beating for a second.</p><p>“Does your mom know you went to visit him?”</p><p>Roxy scowls now, and there’s a flash of fire in her eyes. “Mom doesn’t need to know everything I do, okay? And he’s supposed to be my relative, she said, so I’m <em>allowed</em> to want to see him. And I’m allowed to see him, too. Stop making that face, he didn’t <em>do</em> anything, and even if he did! I can take care of myself, y’know?”</p><p>John, frankly, has no idea what face he’s making, but he’s not sure it has anything to do with wholesome reasons such as concern for Roxy’s safety. He feels guilty about that. Crocker’s words echo back at him- <em>at least I don’t pretend to be a good person</em>. John’s- he’s not pretending. He’s trying. That’s different, it has to be, but it doesn’t make it easier to deal with the squirming, dark things inside him, the first instinctive selfish thoughts in situations like these. They shouldn’t be there, but they are.</p><p>“I know you can,” he says lamely. But Roxy’s sweet, she takes it as the reassurance it is. “I just-, uh. It surprised me, is all. I didn’t know you’d wanted to meet him. Actually, I didn’t really think that anyone had met him?”</p><p>“John, oh em gee. Just because you’re gone for two weeks doesn’t mean he’s just been sitting there for ages alone,” Roxy sighs. “Mom’s had people go talk to him ‘n get all those sweet, sweet deets and hot corporate goss.”</p><p>“And, like. He’s answered their questions?” John feels very, very off-kilter.</p><p>“I mean. Yes? He kinda has to, doesn’t he? The whole deal thing.”</p><p>“Right,” John says, like he has any idea of the actual details of this mythical deal. All he knows about it is that Rose is satisfied, and apparently Dirk is talking, and that John himself has nothing to do with it. And that’s fine, really. It’s for the better. John’s not sure he could see Dirk Crocker without wanting to strangle him or wanting to cry.</p><p>(He doesn’t know how it got this bad, how Dirk had misread him so much, or how he’d misread Dirk. He doesn’t know how to fix it, either, and John’s been trying his best to convince himself <em>not</em> to fix it. Crocker’s made it abundantly clear that he wants nothing to do with John anymore, now that he’s gotten what he wants.</p><p>And maybe that’s an unfair way to think about it, like he’s the one being used, when they’ve been using each other all along, but- John doesn’t understand why this one would be different from the rest. Crocker wanted to leave, and John helped with that, and now Crocker’s here and spilling all the secrets John’d never gotten him to, and that’s fine, isn’t it?</p><p>Isn’t it?)</p><p>“That doesn’t explain why you went to see him, though,” he says, after a moment. He has to shake all of that off. He’s not sure he likes the idea of Roxy going to see Dirk alone, mostly because it doesn’t seem to be a good one, but. They’re related, aren’t they. If Rose and Dirk are siblings, then he’s her- uncle? Maybe? He has no idea.</p><p>“Everyone was talkin’ ‘bout him like he’s some evil demon, ‘n it’s not like he <em>looks</em> it. I would’ve asked you if you were here, but- okay, fine, I probably wouldn’t have, ‘cause then you’d have made me ask Mom.”</p><p>“Wait, you snuck down to see him?” Every single second of this conversation makes him more and more confused, and John’s still trying to catch his footing from his own chat with Crocker two weeks ago.</p><p>Well. He isn’t <em>Crocker</em> anymore, is he, and John knows whose fault that is, even if he refuses to be guilty about it. It’s for the best. But John feels wrong to be calling him by his first name now, even in the privacy of his own head.</p><p>“It wasn’t sneaking! Technically,” Roxy amends. Hell, there really is something of Dirk in her, if he looks closely- the way she looks just a bit smug at having pulled off a successful trick. It’s in the corners of her mouth, the way her eyes crinkle slightly. “I just, y’know. Made sure some people had other places to be, and then we hung out for a bit. That’s all.”</p><p>“And…you’re telling me this why?” It’s the wrong thing to say, and John knows it from the way her face shutters. Oh, jeez. He’s usually so much better at talking to her. Now, he’s just scrambling to not make an idiot of himself. “Not that you can’t tell me things. We’ve known each other for ages, I think you probably should tell me things. I just meant that-,” he breaks off. What <em>did</em> he mean? It’s not like Roxy was being malicious bringing this up; he’s not sure she knows much about the gross details of his (former, it’s former, and John has to keep reminding himself that it’s definitely better that way) relationship with Dirk Crocker, and even if she did know all of them, she’s not the kind of person to rub it in his face.</p><p>“I meant that it sounded like something specific happened,” he finishes, lamely. “That’s all.”</p><p>“Oh.” Her mouth makes a little surprised circle as she considers that. John wishes she’d take him at his word about things more often, but this time, he can’t exactly blame her. He made a whole mess out of a simple sentence, that’s for sure. “Nah. Like, if you’re asking if he did anything, he didn’t? All we did was talk. He seemed- Iunno. He wasn’t what I thought, y’know?”</p><p>“Yeah,” John agrees, softly. More sincere than he’d meant to. He clears his throat, glances away. “He looks like a normal guy, right? You wouldn’t think about it with everything that people say about him. Dude’s human, not a demon, like you said.”</p><p>“Everything we say about him,” she corrects. John ignores the knot in his throat that threatens to rise at that. “But- anyway! I’m getting distracted. I don’t think he looks super normal? He’s too…pretty, I guess. Sort of. No, it’s more the way he moves? He’s really, really still, and then he moves all of a sudden, and it’s kinda freaky. Plus you can always tell when he’s looking right at you.”</p><p>Roxy does a surprisingly good imitation of <strike>Crocker’s Dirk’s </strike>the trademark flat-faced stare, before she breaks it into a thousand pieces with a wry smile.</p><p>“And he looks a lot like Mom does. ‘S only something I’d have noticed seeing ‘em both in person, though.”</p><p>“He does, doesn’t he,” John murmurs. “You know, I didn’t put it together at first? And I’ve seen them both in person plenty of times.”</p><p>“If y’all were doin’ the nasty, I’m happy you weren’t thinking ‘bout Mom during, so,” Roxy shrugs, but the way she’s grinning makes it impossible to buy into that fake nonchalance she’s trying. John still makes a face, his ears flaming.</p><p>“No! I- nope, I’m not even thinking about it, I didn’t hear you say that.” He shakes his head, hands clapping over his ears. “Seriously. Don’t tell your mother that, she’ll be getting on my case about weird suppressed feelings for her, and I have suffered enough. Have mercy.”</p><p>“But it’d be pretty fun to watch you squirm,” Roxy tells him, still smiling. And there’s how she, Dirk, and Rose are related: All of them want to watch John squirm, apparently, and are willing to do whatever it takes to get there. Although, realistically, Dirk had been the most efficient at it.</p><p>“You’re Rose’s kid, alright,” John says instead, and slouches lower onto the shitty sofa. He really needs to get a new one in here, or ask Rose for one. This feels like it’s trying to swallow him whole in the worst way possible.</p><p>But the expected answer doesn’t come; Roxy’s quiet instead, in a way that she usually isn’t. It sets off some quiet alarm bells in the corner of John’s mind.</p><p>“…Something wrong?”</p><p>“It’s- nah, I know I’m just being dumb,” she sighs. “Mom raised me, ‘course I’m her daughter, but it’s just weird to think we’re technically sisters?”</p><p>Oh, so that’s the relation. It <em>is</em> weird, especially given the age difference between Rose and Roxy (and Dirk, respectively), but then again, he’s way closer to their age than he is to Rose’s, and he still calls her one of his best friends. That’d be dumb to say, though. It’s not the reassurance that Roxy’s looking for, he’s pretty sure, and besides. When it comes to business, she’s his boss first, his friend second, and he respects that.</p><p>“It is,” he agrees. “But it doesn’t really change anything, and you sound like you already know that.”</p><p>“Mhmm. I guess it’s also that I’ve suddenly got more family? Except they’re not really family, not to me, because one’s taking over the world, one’s-,” a vague gesture, which John has to assume refers to Dave Crocker, and fair enough, “- and Dirk’s down in the dungeons.”</p><p>“It’s not a dungeon,” John says automatically. “Your mom just stuck bars in the one part of the basement storage area that had a bathroom and called it a day. Things were, uh. Kind of last minute, when it came to figuring out where to put him.”</p><p>“Yeah, we don’t really do prisoners so much as halfway house stuff? So I was kinda surprised to see him down there,” she muses. “He didn’t look big mad about it or anything, though! Which was also kinda surprising, but I guess he also knew he wasn’t gonna get anywhere complainin’ at me. Maybe at you, though?”</p><p>John doesn’t disagree with that. He doesn’t say that he didn’t like it that much, either. Which- he’s still coming to terms with. Wasn’t he supposed to wat to see someone like Dirk Crocker brought to justice, and all that?</p><p>But when Dirk’d brought it up, said that John had always wanted him in a cell, always wanted him to lose-</p><p>It. Well. He’s not dumb enough to get his feelings hurt by that guy, okay? He isn’t. Because Crocker was right, in that John has always known what he is, and what he is hasn’t changed at all.</p><p>“He’d never complain about anything to me,” John says, a beat or two or ten too late. “He’s so proud, it’s actually borders on parody.”</p><p>“Guess he thought he had a lot to be proud of?” Roxy tells him, but there’s some unease in her voice when it comes to just <em>what</em> Dirk had been proud of.</p><p>“Maybe. I don’t- I mean. I’m not going to make excuses or anything for him, even though everyone thinks I went soft over the guy,” John starts off, haltingly. “But some of the stuff he said? He didn’t really know anything different.”</p><p>“Some of the stuff he said…? He did just say he was guilty at the weird trial thing Mom did, didn’t he?” Roxy pushes. The frown is evident in her voice. Right, John hasn’t told her about that conversation. He really, really doesn’t want to.</p><p>“No, uh. When we talked alone. I guess that Betty’s real strict about how she raises her kids,” John jokes, but it falls flat. “I don’t know. It sounded like he was proud of a job well done, instead of what the job actually was. That’s not <em>the</em> most encouraging thing, but-,”</p><p>“But it’s kinda like what we see with the Carapacians that manage to get away, isn’t it?” Roxy finishes the sentence almost for him, enthusiasm newfound. “Like some of the stuff, whatever reason they had for going, they just- don’t really <em>get</em> why it’s wrong. ‘N it’s how they see themselves, too?”</p><p>John hasn’t spent anywhere near as much time with them as Roxy has, and he’s starting to regret that, a little. They’re nice, mostly. Some more creative in the cussing than others.</p><p>“What do you mean, how they see themselves?”</p><p>“Oh- right. They’re made in these tanks and factories, right?” She waits until John nods to continue. “And they’re all kind of, clones, in a way? Like the Batterwitch has used some weird ectobiology stuff to make a bunch’a basic body plans for different tasks and then those are basically templates, so they don’t really…think of themselves as individuals so much as things? It’s really fucked up,” Roxy adds, and there’s a trace of aching sadness in her voice. “Like. I don’t think we can ever really <em>get</em> it. ‘Cause even the ones that come to us, or that we manage to get out of there, still have this weird outlook like they’re expendable ‘n here to sacrifice themselves for mom, or like, whatever job she ends up giving them, but that’s not what they gotta do, y’know? They’re…happy working, sure, and it’s not like we can <em>force</em> ‘em to relax ‘n learn about themselves ‘n think about what they want and all that, but they never had the chance t’do any of that before. If that makes sense.</p><p>“Like. Are they working ‘cause they want to? Or ‘cause they think they gotta be useful here,” she finally settles on. Roxy’s voice is decisive. John hopes she never tells <em>any</em> of this to Dirk. Not just because of snobbery, or because John thinks he’ll bristle at being compared to the Carapacians, even though he might. But because it cuts, right to the quick, and while John doesn’t have Dirk’s perfect recall, he remembers a whole lot of what the Dirk had said to him.</p><p>John doesn’t think about why he’d want to spare Dirk that particular pain.</p><p>“I hadn’t really thought of it like that,” he says, a bit awkward. It’s better than saying he hadn’t thought about it at all. They weren’t working for CrockerCorp, and they weren’t under the Batterwitch’s thumb, and that’d been good enough for him the whole time. Anything was better than there, right? “Mostly they seemed happy to be here?”</p><p>“They are!” Roxy’s quick to emphasize that. John knows she’s always been fond of the Carapacians, and they of her, but now he wonders how much is <em>her</em> and how much is- what she’d been made to be. He doesn’t like that he’s doubting these things now; everything that’d been so simple to accept before suddenly isn’t, but nothing has changed, either. Roxy is still Roxy; Rose is still Rose.</p><p>And Dirk- well. He’s never going to be anything other than himself.</p><p>“It’s just hard to let go of old habits for ‘em, when it’s all they ever known. But they do their best,” she says, softly. “And, y’know. They manage. They pick names and everything, it’s real cute, even if the names they pick, are like. Kinda weird? The one that always hangs with Karkat calls himself the Mayor and I…don’t know why? But it also doesn’t matter, because it’s so dang cute.”</p><p>“The Mayor’s pretty great,” John agrees. “His model can town? That’s the stuff of dreams. Kind of makes me wish we had the real estate to let him go wild. Maybe after things are over.”</p><p>“Maybe!” She nods, enthusiastic. “Mom’s planning something, I’m pretty sure? Seems t’be somethin’ real big, too, so it’s good you’re here else she’d have been all cranky about coming to get you. She <em>hates</em> LA.”</p><p>“I still don’t know what it ever did to her? She only came to visit me there a few times, and nothing traumatic happened or anything. But it might just be too sunny. Your mom had me convinced she was some kind of vampire for ages, with how she preferred the dark. And now…she’s dating a troll vampire? So maybe I wasn’t that far off.” He cuts himself off, though. He’s getting off topic, here. “Sorry. What’s the plan?”</p><p>“Well, how am <em>I </em>s’posed t’know? It’s secret,” Roxy points out. Which- is fair enough. Rose has a bad habit of keeping things very close to her chest. It isn’t one that John had thought to question before, at least not too intensely. But now? After the sham of a trial, after Dirk? He’s not so sure he should just let it slide like that.</p><p>He doesn’t want to be left out of the loop, and he’s not going to be anyone’s pawn. Not like that.</p><p>(And maybe, some part of him knows that Dirk’d be proud of him for thinking that way. But it doesn’t matter now, does it. John doesn’t want to see him, not really, and Dirk sure as hell won’t want to have a single thing to do with John in turn. Maybe it was always going to end that way, but he hadn’t expected it to <em>hurt</em>. He hadn’t expected to feel any kind of way about it at all.)</p><p>“Okay, fair, I guess I’m just going to have to ask her to make it less secret,” he says, with more confidence than he actually feels about it. He isn’t sure what he’ll do if Rose tells him actually, no John, you’re not necessary for this, and in fact it’s better you don’t know. Even in that imaginary (and totally unrealistic, thanks brain) scenario, he can hear the overlay of Crocker’s laughter, just on the edge of cruel.</p><p>Man. He’s been gone two weeks, exhausted himself, and he still can’t stop thinking about the guy. That’s fucked up.</p><p>“Do you think-,” he clears his throat, tries not to sound embarrassingly eager for information or anything. “Do you think it’s got anything to do with what he might’ve said?”</p><p>“Oh. Hmmmm,” she draws out the syllable. Roxy’s brows crease as she thinks it over hard. “Iunno? Mom’s bein’ real cagey about what he’s sayin’ too, and I didn’t exactly <em>get</em> a lot outta him. Okay, sure, fine, I didn’t <em>ask</em> that much, ‘cause I figured he’d had enough of talkin’ about all that, but still. Doesn’t seem like he’d spill a lotta secrets off the bat. Kinda feels like this is maybe somethin’ she’s been thinkin’ about for a while but can only do it now ‘cause he’s not there? Or like, ‘cause it’s way worse for them if he’s not there?”</p><p>“That makes sense, I guess. It’s probably not something she’d ever have told anyone anyway, if it required one of them leaving. No one really thought it was possible.” He pauses. “Before it happened. And before finding about you and her.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Roxy says, contemplative. “I mean. Damn? I’m real happy she got me outta there when I was a kid, el oh el. I might’a given her <em>hell</em> when I was a teen but now I’m just kinda grateful I didn’t end up all, y’know. Spooky and brainwashed.”</p><p>“Yeah,” he echoes. There’s nothing more to add- he <em>is</em> so fucking happy Roxy didn’t have to go through that.</p><p>“Must’ve been lonely for him, though,” she adds, so quiet that John swears he’s hearing things at first.</p><p>“You think?” It’s absurd to imagine Dirk Crocker being lonely. It’s actually kind of impossible to imagine him as anything other than kind of a spoiled brat who didn’t get along with his brother (which John isn’t blaming on past Dirk or anything, he’s not sure Dave Crocker met anything he got along with, and that’s just being honest) and was too smart for his own good, probably. <em>Lonely</em> doesn’t factor into it at all, not when he had everything he’d wanted, not when he was going to grow up to do- well. Everything he’s done, everything he knows he’s guilty for.</p><p>“I was, too,” is all Roxy has to say. “But like, at least I had Mom.”</p><p>John doesn’t have much to say to that. He’s only a few years older than Roxy, but now she’s the one who seems ancient.</p><p>“Anyway!” She shakes her head, dispelling the strange, pensive mood that’d settled over her. It’s- concerning, maybe, how easily she does it. But she’s never been one to worry too much about depressing things, especially not in front of other people. And John kind of thinks she doesn’t <em>know</em> enough to worry about, in this case. Not really.</p><p>(But then again, neither does he. If he would worry for Dirk in the first place. Or- past Dirk. He’ll admit that it’s pretty glaringly obvious that he was very worried for recent-past Dirk during the trial.)</p><p>“Anyway,” John echoes, a little awkwardly. “It’s- I’m glad you had fun, talking to him? I guess? But probably tell your mom or something that you’re doing it.”</p><p>Roxy makes a complicated expression.</p><p>“I’ll think about it?”</p><p>“At least don’t tell her that you told me, then,” he sighs. That’s probably the best he can do, right now, and Roxy grins.</p><p>“That, you’ve got a deal on!”</p><p>She slaps their hands together so hard that John’s palm stings, even after she leaves fifteen minutes later, cheery as ever.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This one's a big boy. But we finally broke 100k! I'm now about halfway through what I've got written out, and *probably* halfway through the entire fic, give or take a couple of chapters depending on how I decide to split things. Woo! </p><p>TW: References to the TiaraTop (so implied brainwashing/mind control), and referenced child abuse. Also one oblique mention of alcoholism, but that isn't discussed too in-depth. The more in-depth discussion of these (other than Dirk's reaction) is in the second half of the chapter, under the line break.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s his very first round of questioning with Rose Lalonde present, and Dirk has already decided he despises it more than the mutterings and the obvious dislike of the people conducting the other ones.</p><p>He assumes he gets to see her because his intel has been verified and checked, and put to good use. Though he isn’t entirely sure about the latter, just based on general observations on the standards for efficiency and competence here. But that, he knows enough to keep to himself. Constructive criticism is not something that these people seem to take easily- and he’s not sure he wants to make their jobs easier than he has to, either. He’ll answer what they ask, and no more, and it’s seemed to work out fine for him.</p><p>Until today, that is.</p><p>That means that something has changed, and faster than he’d expected it to. Interesting; Lalonde is more efficient than her organization would make it seem.</p><p>It doesn’t take much more than for him to lock eyes with Lalonde to know that this is an entirely different beast. Or, as Dave would say ‘a whole other motherfucking bitch to deal with.’ He’s not usually inclined to admit that Dave is right, or to quote him, but in this case? The shoe fits.</p><p>He drops into the proffered chair wordlessly, waits for the cuffs that don’t come. He cocks an eyebrow at her.</p><p>“Aren’t you worried about what I’ll do if I’m not restrained?” he asks, pointedly lifting his free hands.</p><p>“Are you complaining?” she asks, equally pointedly. “I can arrange for them to be bound if you’d prefer, but I rather thought we could have a polite, civilized conversation.”</p><p>“Conversation’s a funny word. Debriefing might be better. Interrogation’s probably best,” he shoots back.</p><p>“You’re hardly at gunpoint. We reached an accord, and you’re here because of it. I think we can both be professionals and uphold our respective ends of that deal, no?” There’s a hint of disdain in her voice as she says ‘professionals’ that doesn’t escape him.</p><p>“Professional is difficult to act, when I’m nothing more than a glorified prisoner. Glorified because you people seem to have a lot of trouble with the word,” he adds, folding his hands neatly on his lap. Her posture is perfect, almost a mirror of his own, but Dirk can’t force himself into a slouch with her eyes on him. He dislikes that immensely.</p><p>“You present a certain security risk,” she says, delicately, proving him entirely right by dancing around the matter. “And you have to be watched for your own safety as much as our own.”</p><p>“Of course,” he answers, not bothering to hide the derision in his tone this time. “My safety is paramount, as your current source of information.”</p><p>He doesn’t get to hear her response, because her eyes instead shift upwards to someone behind him, a faint smile curving at her mouth. Dirk has a bad feeling about that.</p><p>“Hello, John. Do come take a seat,” she says. Of fucking course it would be John Egbert sitting in on this; who else would it be? Certainly not anyone that he would tolerate seeing, or who would tolerate seeing him.</p><p>“Sure thing,” Egbert says, with the practiced ease that tells him that they’ve planned this out. Dirk isn’t entirely sure why that’s necessary; he’s been honest, ‘professional’ about holding up his end of the bargain. There’s no need to try and unnerve him, or startle him into cooperativity.</p><p>And, he reminds himself, there’s no weak point there to exploit that would do either of those things anyway.</p><p>It’s a flimsy defense, but it’s one he’s going to cling to. He keeps his eyes very firmly on Lalonde, even as Egbert takes his time settling into the chair next to her. It takes every ounce of discipline to not cave and look at him, confirm the small differences in his appearance since the last time they saw each other.</p><p>(Really, it’s just that his hair seems longer, and he’s shaved. Nothing important, nothing interesting. No new scars that Dirk can see on exposed skin, anyway, and he doesn’t want to think about if there’s any he can’t because that’s a dangerous road to go down, equally bad as the way his stomach twists at the thought of anyone else leaving a scar on Egbert. Goddammit.)</p><p>“So,” he drawls out. “What is it that you wanted to ask me?”</p><p>“Well, I thought I would inform you that what you’ve shared so far has been very helpful to us.” She’s fishing for a reaction now, Dirk knows, and he simply pastes his mildest smile on his face, affecting faux innocence and faux interest.</p><p>“Is that so? Good. I’d hate for it to have been out of date.”</p><p>“You did warn us about some of the passwords, yes. They didn’t work, of course, but we had to try, you understand.” She looks at him expectantly, like he’s meant to. Unfortunately, he does.</p><p>“Of course. But this seems excessive to just give me a few words of praise and a pat on the head, especially for just doing what I said I’d do.” Not just seems- it <em>is</em> excessive, and he’s not sure what the point of this charade is.</p><p>“Do you dislike being praised, Dirk?” she asks. “I imagine kind words were difficult to come by. She was ever so exacting.”</p><p>“Her high standards ensured excellence,” Dirk says smoothly. Automatically. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees John flinch. He’s still squeamish when Dirk says what he’s meant to and plays his part. Of course, that’s hardly a surprise, when the part is one that Egbert disapproves of so badly. “I simply aim to meet them. It keeps me on my toes.”</p><p>“Kept,” Lalonde corrects. She’s still smiling pleasantly, and oh, if he hadn’t already known they were blood, that smile would tell him everything. He’s sure it works on all the innocent, naïve, and unwary, but he knows that it hides fangs. He knows she learned it at Mother’s knee.</p><p>“Of course.” He refuses to let her win, though, and he keeps his gaze on her as he slips into Alternian, the guttural hiss of it harsh and familiar on his throat. “<em>The Euphoric.</em>”</p><p>He’s rewarded by a widening of her eyes, a faint look of shock crossing her face.</p><p>“<em>Or perhaps I should call you The Apostate, instead</em>?” He switches back to English, smoothly. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your mother tongue, Ms. Lalonde. With your aptitude for language, it’s difficult to believe.”</p><p>He could, of course, stop pushing her. But he won’t.</p><p>“But we can table that for the next meeting, I’m sure,” he says. “Apologies for the interruption, you were saying…?”</p><p>This is no boardroom, Dirk knows, but he’s cut his teeth on much worse than Rose Lalonde, and if she’d ever had to do the same, she wouldn’t have lost track of the conversation quite so much. But there’s a reason Mother wanted her as High Priestess, and the way her eyes are attempting to burn a hole through his skull say it all.</p><p>“I was saying that there are a few things I would like to get out of the way first, now that we’re all here, before we start the meeting proper.” Lalonde pauses, surveys the room as if she’s expecting someone else to interrupt her. To be fair, the surly troll lurking in the corner looks liable to, if only by lunging across the table to rip Dirk’s throat out with his teeth. What Dirk has done to him, specifically, he has no idea, but he’s sure there’s a long list in the troll’s head.</p><p>At the top of it is likely the candy-red of his eyes, a dead giveaway.</p><p>He’ll need to keep an eye on this one. It’s likely personal for him, on a level that it isn’t for John, or Lalonde, or indeed any of the humans that Dirk’s dealt with.</p><p>(He wonders what would happen, if he took his shades off in front of this troll. He wonders what would happen if he did that, and sliced his palm open, and said here, look. We bleed the same, don’t think I don’t know what she thinks of me, too.)</p><p>“The first,” Lalonde says crisply, her gaze returning to Dirk, “is to note that you’ve cooperated well with us so far. I appreciate that.”</p><p>He inclines his head in a nod- this is all the thanks he is willing to give until he figures out just what her game is.</p><p>“Second, is to gauge the breadth of your knowledge on certain items. I’ll ask any questions I have to.” He was right, when he’d noted she had no boardroom experience; this is far too direct an approach, one that doesn’t allow for the more subtle manoeuvring that helps avoid people noticing wounded pride until much later.</p><p>He thinks he might actually appreciate it, even if he suspects this is yet another game of Lalonde’s. But he’s already agreed to play along.</p><p>“Seems simple enough.”</p><p>She nods, and slides him a tablet- not Company made, that much is clear, and old, too. It’s not from any of their shells or affiliates, either, nor any of those under the general CrockerCorp appliance umbrella. He flips it over to see an ancient logo, an apple with a bite taken out of it. Ah. From before they’d absorbed it. Amazing that they’re still making chargers for these things.</p><p>“This is obsolete,” he says, but he’s already looking down at the screen. It’s clear enough, but the picture and color quality is nothing like what he’s used to. God, this thing must be from the early aughts. “They still make charging cords for these things?”</p><p>“Mr. Crocker.”</p><p>“Not my name, Ms. Crocker,” he tells her, flippant in a way he’s maybe 87% sure she’ll hate. A quick glance upwards at her tells him that she’s struggling not to grind his teeth. Dave had the same issue, perhaps it’s a first generation bug. But he can always get new teeth, Lalonde can’t. He should probably be nicer, as a gesture, so he looks back at the image on the tablet. It’s just- well. A normal picture, of one of their products. “So- you want to know the secrets of...the Sendificator?”</p><p>“I want to know if you know the secrets of the Sendificator,” she corrects, her voice back to prim and proper once more. She’s good at hiding those fangs of hers, but Dirk has always been singularly good at getting under people’s skin. He’s honed it to a talent, and while he has to be careful with Lalonde, because there are many ways she can make his life miserable without breaking their agreement, he’ll still keep a note of what works and what doesn’t.</p><p>“Yes. Not necessarily the mechanics of how they work- quantum physics has never been my forte, but the more practical aspect, yes.” Dirk misses his time in R&amp;D all the more these days; the hours had been hell, but the research itself had been fascinating. He still thinks he’s better suited to that than to a desk job, but Mother knew best, and he knows he’d been effective where she’d wanted him to be.</p><p>Well. He’d had to be. But that’s neither here nor there.</p><p>“If we had one, would you be able to provide instructions on how to reprogram it?” So, that’s her game. Not a bad one, given that Dirk can see what they’re working with.</p><p>“You’d be better off shredding and rebuilding it,” he tells her, honest. “If you’ve got the tracking out, that’s good, but the data collection and privacy features weren’t made to be truly disabled without outside help, especially in the newer generations. The old ones, you’d probably be fine with. I assume those are the ones you’re thinking of?”</p><p>“They are, yes. That’s helpful, I’ll have someone look into it.”</p><p>Dirk just nods, flips to the next picture. Blurry, clearly from a phone camera and taken stealthily. This one, at least, makes sense.</p><p>“Oh, the Drones. This one’s the Mark XIV, the Brobot- well. It’s not called that anymore. It’s made for stealth, mostly, but also functions as a combat ‘droid and a security detail. It’s smaller than the standard Imperials that Mother had been using, and more intelligent, faster in its decision-making. But you already knew that.” He taps the screen once. It’d been one of his own projects, though he hadn’t been able to complete it. That honor had gone to someone else, along with the credit. He hadn’t minded at the time- he’d understood Mother’s need for him to be underestimated in that way.</p><p>“We did, yes. What are the weak spots?” She’s leaning forward, subtly, now, and Dirk can tell that the Brobot production must have put a damper on much of her activities. He tries to feel proud of that.</p><p>“Depends on who’s fighting it,” Dirk says. “Mr. Egbert over there could likely take one down, even without the element of surprise, that hammer of his packs a punch. I’m sure you’d be able to handle one, as well, along with some of the cooler blooded trolls. I think...green and tealbloods, mostly, should be fine. The higher up on the hemospectrum they are, the less trouble they’ll have. And of course, it’s much less likely to register, say, a purpleblood or a seadweller as a target at all.”</p><p>It’s a question, and one that doesn’t get an answer. He's curious to see how much she's going to push; the Drones have changed since her time, he's sure. But not that drastically. She's testing him, and Dirk doesn't intend to make it too easy for her.</p><p>“And weaknesses?”</p><p>“Same as the others? If you stab them enough, they’ll stop moving. Most things do.” At her look, he sighs and relents. Being nice. “I combat tested them myself, but I was much younger at the time. They’ll be fast and strong, but get inside their reach. And I think they still run off uranium, so- be careful with that, if you’re sending a human or a Carapacian.”</p><p>“You think?” she presses, arching a perfect eyebrow. Lalonde sees her chance, and Dirk can’t fault her for taking it. It’s how things work, after all.</p><p>(And maybe, he can be slightly satisfied that finally, here is someone who’ll match him like this, where he doesn’t have to hold back, or worry about being too clever or too good. It’s strange.)</p><p>“Yes, I think. I haven’t exactly been receiving detailed updates about their improvements, only signing off about new models going into production.”</p><p>“They look like you. Kind of,” John interrupts, with a truly useless tidbit of information. Any idiot can tell that the thing looks like Dirk. It’s meant to.</p><p>“I was fairly narcissistic as a teenager,” Dirk says. “Of course they do, I designed the original prototype.” He has to work to keep the pride out of his voice here- he’s reasonably sure it wouldn’t go down well. But the information wouldn’t be difficult to obtain, not with Roxy around to go poking around the servers, and Dirk here to not stop her. Or aid her, in fact, which is what he suspects will be an assigned task at some point. “In any event, if you have the blueprints, I’ll point out the best spots to aim for when attacking. And any other weaknesses I can remember.”</p><p>It doesn’t hurt as much as he’d thought it would, doing this. Dirk supposes he really is a traitor, now.</p><p>“That would be helpful, yes. I’ll have them sent to you.”</p><p>The next picture gives him pause, though. Not because it’s unfamiliar, but because it’s <em>too</em> familiar. He has to close his eyes behind his shades, marshal himself for a moment, because o the screen in bright Company red, logo emblazoned, is the TiaraTop. The cursed fucking <strike>fashionable accessory.</strike></p><p>
  <strike>He’s lucky to wear it. </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>Mother would want him to wear it. She’ll be so proud when he does. He’s a good worker with it on, productive and efficient. He’s so much easier to deal with when it’s on. Everyone likes him better, because everyone wants one of their own, too. </strike>
</p><p>Bile burns the back of his throat.</p><p>Dirk has to force himself to relax the white-knuckled grip he has on the tablet before he shatters the screen; already there are hairline cracks radiating outwards from his fingers.</p><p>He feels Lalonde’s gaze on him; he can practically hear her thinking <em>ah, there it is</em>, to herself.</p><p>He wants to vomit.</p><p>He’s fine. This is fine. <strike> It’s just the TiaraTop, it’s never hurt him, doesn’t he want to put it on? Of course he does. </strike></p><p>
  <span class="dave"> <strike><strong>Of</strong><b> course you do.</b></strike> </span>
</p><p>He’ll never have to wear it again, and he’s viciously glad. He swallows it down, and speaks instead, keeping his voice casual.</p><p>“Ah, yes. The Unreal Heir Thoughtwave Tiaratop. Patented with a slew of others after the Rebranding, but proprietary technology for much longer.” Dirk blinks over at the picture for a moment. “Or- Unreal Heiress if that’s the one that she gave to you, though I don’t really know why it’d need to be gendered that way. You know what this is already, though. I’d say you have better information on this than the rest.”</p><p>He doesn’t outright ask why he’s being shown it because that seems pointless, but it’s on the tip of his tongue.</p><p>“I do,” Lalonde agrees. She doesn’t say anything else, frustratingly enough. It’s their second meeting, and he can already tell that this is a habit of hers that he’s going to loathe. But Dirk is patient, and he can wait, even if he dislikes the increasingly tense silence. Quiet was never a good thing for him.</p><p>“She used it on you,” John bursts out, making it entirely impossible for Dirk to ignore him. He has no idea whether or not that’s directed to him or Lalonde. He sounds almost panicked.</p><p>He darts a glance over at Egbert, and then another at Lalonde, and she inclines her head slightly. He sighs.</p><p>“You saw me wearing it, one. And two, I would <em>think</em> that you’d check for that sort of brainwashing before bringing me here,” he says instead, acerbic. “And besides, what good is it to say no? I’d be denying it if she had, and I’d be denying it if she hadn’t. This line of questioning is just wasting both our time, Lalonde, and you’ve precious little of that to waste if you intend to put up any kind of a real fight.”</p><p>“We’ve been doing just fine,” Egbert butts in, and really, Dirk still doesn’t know why he’s here at all, but he suspects it has something to do with distracting him. An interesting gambit, he’ll admit, but Dirk isn’t going to let that trick work on him twice. Lalonde ought to know better. “And, I mean. Did it <em>work</em>?”</p><p>And there’s the rub. Dirk’s quiet.</p><p>“Answer the question,” Lalonde says, simply.</p><p>“I wore it, yes.” He’s reluctant to actually say it, despite everything. He’s fairly sure that if the TiaraTop worked as it was meant to, he wouldn’t have even entertained a single thought about John. “But so did you,” he reminds her. Just in case anyone is thinking of using that to void his deal.</p><p>“I did. But it worked on me, at least. Not on you, though.” Lalonde’s fingers drum slightly against the surface of the table, and Dirk recognizes it as something that he does. He resolves to stop doing it immediately. “Why is that?”</p><p>“I didn’t tinker with mine, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he tells her. It wouldn’t have been allowed; the damn thing set off alarms if he so much as took it off when he wasn’t supposed to. He’d never been able to crack it open.</p><p>“It isn’t. Mine didn’t work well, either,” she admits freely. “Though my tinkering would no doubt have been considerably clumsier than yours.”</p><p>“What, did you bash it against the floor until it stopped working?”</p><p>“Kept throwing it against the wall, actually.” There’s a shadow in her eyes that tells Dirk exactly what that kind of defiance had cost her, and he looks away from it. Mother had never been understanding of tantrums.</p><p>“Interesting methodology,” is all he comments. “But I’m still not seeing the relevance here.”</p><p>“You weren’t allowed to look at the schematics for it, correct?” she prompts.</p><p>“Correct.” Not that it had stopped him, by any means, but if she refuses to ask precise questions, she isn’t going to get precise answers. At least, not about this.</p><p>(God, what’s wrong with him, that his mouth is so dry he feels like he’s ungluing his lips to say a single thing?)</p><p>“Were you aware of the plans for their mass production?” she asks, and that gives Dirk pause for a moment.</p><p>“I was aware that it was being considered, but not that any decision had been made about it,” he says, after a moment. “Last I heard, there were some design flaws that needed fixing.”</p><p>“Random electrocution or leaving people vegetables isn’t a <em>design flaw</em>,” Egbert spits out, his eyes narrowed.</p><p>“Sorry, are you just here for self-righteous commentary?” Dirk asks, his resolve to ignore the asshole wavering somewhat. But it’s easier to snark at Egbert than it is to answer Lalonde, and the familiarity grounds him for a moment, even if their banter now has a bitter twist that wasn’t there before. Apparently, they could only ever be enemies. Dirk shouldn’t be surprised. “Because if so, keep it to yourself and let the adults talk.” He makes sure his words drip condescension, the kind learned at Mother’s knee and at the edge of Dave’s sword, his voice slanting into the familiar high-to-lowblood cadence. It’s missed by Egbert entirely, of course, but he sees a flash of irritation in Lalonde’s unsettling purple eyes. “As I was saying. Flaws in both function, and aesthetics, and there were some difficulties with sourcing the materials anyway. I wasn’t aware that they were planning to move ahead on it any time soon.”</p><p>“Were you called in to work on those flaws?”</p><p>“No,” he answers, without hesitation. “That would’ve been someone else’s job. I wasn’t to see those blueprints, remember? My expertise lies more in the Drones and security. And I moved away from R&amp;D when Mother decided Dave and I would be more efficient in office.”</p><p>Not that ‘efficient’ is anything that Dave has ever been, but he’ll admit that she was likely right. The clowns weren’t doing what they were meant to, however riotous the Dark Carnival may have been.</p><p>“Would your departure have accelerated the timeline on their deployment?” Lalonde asks this with a raised eyebrow, as if ‘departure’ doesn’t stand for ‘open defiance, disobedience, and straight up fucking ingratitude.’ He wants to spit in her face for it. Instead, he considers the question.</p><p>“Maybe. I don’t think she’s going to try to replace me with anyone who isn’t completely under her control,” he says, slowly. “But I don’t know that anyone who she didn’t make would be, ah. Robust enough.”</p><p>“Paper pushing requires that much muscle?” Egbert interrupts, snide, yet again.</p><p>“No,” Dirk says, and doesn’t elaborate. He keeps looking at Lalonde instead. “There would be considerable testing required even if she had candidates in mind, and for now, the bureaucracy can keep running itself. I don’t know if the Dignitary is back yet, but if not, she’d likely have called him in to keep things going smoothly until she could organize a suitable replacement. If you’re asking me if I think she’s going to stick a TiaraTop on people and choose the best of the bunch, the answer is no, by the way.”</p><p>“Are you certain?”</p><p>“Completely. Mother has exacting standards, and even if they were ready for mass-production within the next month, it would still take time for her to pick, with all the options. And I doubt she’s desperate enough to just give it to one of the beta testers.” Not to mention that he has no idea how said tester would hold up to the most trying aspect of his job- ie, Dave.</p><p>“Good,” Lalonde says. Egbert is a cloud of glowering discontent, and Dirk bites down on the urge to tell her to discipline him. Tantrums are for children, after all. “We’ll have to move quickly, but without someone as, ah, competent filling your shoes, this will afford us an advantage.”</p><p>“Don’t take too long,” he says, as much of a warning as he’s willing to give. Dirk has always known just how replaceable he is- it would be difficult not to, with Dave consistently telling him-, but it is another to be faced with the inevitability of it.</p><p>(He wonders if his replacement will be welcome at family dinners, if they’ll braid her hair and tease her and offer just the perfect amount of bite back to keep her entertained and happy. He wonders if they’ve been growing in a tank somewhere under the mansion, waiting anyway, nothing but a empty shell. A puppet, and Mother holding the strings as always. She’d dote on it, he thinks, but something so brainless and thoroughly under her control would be no fun for Dave. And Dave has a terrible habit of breaking other people’s toys.</p><p>(It makes him sick to think about, this imposter in his place. But it isn’t his place. He gave it up, he left, he’s a fucking traitor and he doesn’t deserve it anyway-)</p><p>No. He’ll handle it. He knew that he was disposable; they all are, and if he might take some small pleasure in seeing his successor on the wrong end of a sword, so be it.</p><p>“I won’t,” Lalonde says, evenly. “As I said, we intend to move fast. Strike while the iron is still hot, so to say. In broad strokes, the goal is to have her toppled before she ever gets a replacement in the Office. Or before she simply decides to move her timeline up.”</p><p>Dirk presses his lips together in a grim line, and nods. This is treason, heresy, blasphemy. He can’t vocalize it. Lalonde seems to recognize that, although she doesn’t call attention to this weakness. No doubt she’s cataloguing it for later. He’s given her quite a lot to work with today; a disappointing performance by his own standards.</p><p>“Are you having second thoughts, Dirk?” she asks, after the silence has drawn out for not two seconds. She won’t even give him a second to think, it seems. A good tactic, but not one that’ll work. If Lalonde wants to see him falter, she’s going to need to try much harder.</p><p>“No,” he says, short. “I’ll help you get rid of her.” He has to force the words out of his mouth, and they nearly stick in his throat. He keeps talking, though. “But to answer your question: I don’t think she will, but I suppose that doesn’t mean much. She’s never been in quite this position before.” Dirk drums his fingers against the table, counts the beats. One, then two, then three, then five. He glances over at Lalonde. “You’ve been planning this for a very long time.”</p><p>“There’s no need to state the obvious, dear,” she says simply. “Rest assured, you’ll be informed of the details when you need to know them, but for now- suffice it to say that we’ll be taking decisive action. Anything to add, based on what we’ve established?”</p><p>“Nothing that you wouldn’t do yourself,” Dirk tells her. His tongue feels heavy, numb. He makes sure each word is enunciated perfectly, that his impatience doesn’t show. He’s going to crawl out of his skin if he has to stay here longer, and this is already so much more than he’s done when providing information. Then, it was holding up his end of a deal. Now, it’s actively plotting, it’s treason, she’s going to <em>have his fucking head</em>-</p><p>No. No, no. Not this again. Under the table, Dirk digs the nails of his free hand into the meat of his thigh, and the dull pain is enough of a distraction for now. He has to keep it together here, though he senses that Lalonde won’t keep them longer.</p><p>He’s right, as it happens- Lalonde says something pithy about everyone being in agreement, as if she isn’t the one calling all the shots, as if dissent is allowed, and Dirk is standing up almost as soon as she does. The mutantblood- no, Vantas, he reminds himself, because he’d received one hell of a lecture for referring to him as that- is at his side instantly, no doubt to make sure he goes right back to his cell and doesn’t make trouble.</p><p>The good news about this is that he’s <em>loud</em>, enough so that if Dirk pushes the right buttons, his raspy voice will crowd all the stray thoughts out of Dirk’s head, leaving him to focus only on the sole safe topic for them: romance.</p><p>Well, at least it’s an interesting one, albeit sore.</p><p>The back of his neck prickles as he walks away, carrying the uncomfortable awareness of being watched.</p>
<hr/><p>Dirk sweeps out of the meeting before John can catch up to him, managing to look imperious despite the fact that there’s Karkat trailing him like a shadow and glowering. They’re talking, John can hear it- actually, it would take a lot more effort <em>not</em> to hear Karkat than to hear him, he’s never been especially talented at volume control for some reason-, about Dirk being a fucking rude-ass wriggler with no manners, a bulge the size of fucking Texas up his ass, and a death wish. He doesn’t hear what Dirk says in response, only sees his mouth open in the shape of a laugh so familiar it echoes in his memory, and Karkat flips him off with so much force it’s kind of impressive his finger doesn’t fly off.</p><p>(That used to be him. Poking at Dirk, getting poked at in turn. And he’s not- he doesn’t have a problem with it, okay? He knows that ship has sailed, thanks, it was made real clear that he didn’t even know he was on it. Or like, that it existed. It’s probably sunk, too, gone down like the Titanic. God, that’s depressing.)</p><p>(At least it’s not Sollux, right?)</p><p>(Oh, he is not doing this. Nope, no way, no how.)</p><p>“John,” Rose says, crisp like she’s been trying and failing to get his attention for a while.</p><p>“Uh. Yes,” he hazards. “I agree. Totally.”</p><p>Her expression shifts into one of fond exasperation. He can tell she’s still stressed, though; whatever Dirk had said to her had gotten under her skin. Which is a surprise in its own way. John knows better than most people how good Dirk is at being really fucking infuriating, but Rose has always kept it together, and kept it cool.</p><p>“Do you, now? Well, I’m glad you also think Antarctica would be a good fit to oversee operations there,” she says, so solemn that John actually <em>buys </em>it for a second.</p><p>“Wh- hey,” he frowns, once he realizes she’s joking. What’s with him today? They don’t even <em>have</em> operations in Antarctica, at least not that Rose has mentioned. But he’s pretty sure that he’d know about those. No one can keep quiet about the cold and penguins. “You couldn’t have just pretended you didn’t know I wasn’t paying attention?”</p><p>“When you were mooning after my brother like a lovestruck teenager? Absolutely not. It was a very informative picture of pining, though,” she says, sly.</p><p>“Rose, seriously, I’m not pining!” His ears burn, and he isn’t sure what’s the worst part- the accusation (completely wrong, thanks!), the fact that she referred to Dirk as her brother, or entire implication that she’d be protective over him, especially after whatever <em>that</em> exchange was. “And since when were you two all buddy-buddy? I could’ve sworn you were about to fistfight in there, earlier.”</p><p>Rose sniffs. “As if I’d ever stoop so low. Neither would he, without the appropriate provocation. We’re not like Dave.”</p><p>John thinks it’s fair to say that there’s no one like Dave, and in fact, he’s pretty grateful for it. He’s just not sure what to make of the fact that Rose is- despite all of that- apparently in a good enough mood to talk about her family as such.</p><p>(Or maybe she’s wanted to, for a long time, but now one brother is here, and the secret is out, so why would she keep holding herself back?)</p><p>“What, so all the weird- chittering was normal?” he asks instead.</p><p>“Chittering- ah. It’s a bastardized form of Alternian, actually. It’s difficult to pronounce some of the polytonals and subsonics, all the cues that denote ranking and status, and relationship between the two speakers, with human voiceboxes, and so she devised a sort of Pidgin for it, albeit grudgingly. At least when I was younger; I suspect that modifications have been made on both Dirk and Roxy’s vocal cords to allow them something closer to what was actually spoken; his accent was quite different from mine,” she explains. “And partially why we’ve been quite successful at communicating with some of the trolls on the warmer end of the hemospectrum. Or, I should say, why we were, before we had Kanaya and Karkat both to explain things much better than I would. Sollux as well; speaking the language doesn’t necessarily mean I understand their perspective on everything, and there are certain cultural cues that I simply didn’t learn. It’s different, coming from someone who has experienced the same things as you.”</p><p>Not for the first time- and, John thinks grimly, not for the last- he feels out of his depth. He’s not sure he wants to hear more about this, all these sides to Rose and Dirk both that he just never knew (never bothered to try to know, a little voice in his head hisses, and he shushes it the best he can), but he’s still morbidly curious.</p><p>“Yeah. That’s pretty true. But you didn’t clarify if that was a fight or if it’s just one of those languages that sound angry, like German,” he says, stealing a glance at her. Rose can talk a <em>lot</em> about kind of esoteric topics, and while he’s not <em>not</em> interested in her take on troll recruitment and all that, it’s also not exactly new information. And maybe not what either of them want to be talking about right now.</p><p>“Hilarious. I’m sure the late Angela Merkel is absolutely furious with you right now,” Rose deadpans. “But you could simply say that he was testing my mettle.”</p><p>John thinks she sounds too smug, too satisfied by that. Because it’s almost exactly the same way Dirk would say it, when he’s gotten what he wanted, even if he hasn’t necessarily come out on top. Man. He’s just not going to think about that at all. Especially not around Rose.</p><p>“He did seem pretty pleased with the result, whatever it was,” John says, awkwardly. “And you also seem pleased with it now.”</p><p>“Well, there’d be no point if there was no bite to him left,” Rose tells him. “But the important part is that we got information out of him- good information, that is. Not only has everything he’s said been verifiable, but it seems like getting details out of him won’t quite be like pulling teeth, as I’d feared. I was worried I would need to get you to ask him, and we both know that he’s more than capable of being close-lipped around you.”</p><p>She doesn’t mean it as an insult or anything, John knows, and he tries to stick to that. But it still stings.</p><p>“Well, that was then? I mean. He takes- took, I guess? His job pretty seriously, and whatever we had going on wasn’t going to interfere with that,” he shrugs. He’s trying to keep his tone light, careless. He’s not bothered by this, of course he isn’t. It’s dumb, and they’ve already hashed it out, they don’t need to do it again. “Besides, I don’t think either of us really want to see one another much right now.”</p><p>Rose pauses before she speaks, deliberate enough that John can tell what she’ll say next is going to hurt. “Do you mean that you don’t wish to see him, or he doesn’t wish to see you?”</p><p>Ah. There it is.</p><p>“I did show up knowing he’d be here, Rose,” he says, a little more waspish than he might like. “Ugh. Sorry. It’s so weird how he can just- get in my head? He didn’t even do anything. He looked at me, like, all of one time. This is stupid. I’m just going to be totally normal and professional.”</p><p>“Normally,” she says, delicate. “After a breakup it can take quite some time for there to be a stable equilibrium. If you’d like to avoid future meetings of this kind, that can be arranged.”</p><p>“No- like. No. I appreciate the offer and all, don’t get me wrong, but this stuff is kind of important for me to know,” he sighs out. “And we’re both busy enough that it’s going to be hard to juggle <em>extra</em> one-on-ones. I know you could, but you shouldn’t have to, not for something I can deal with. I am dealing with,” John corrects himself. “Besides. He’s going to think I’m scared or something, if I avoid him when it’s a thing that I kind of should be there for? And then there’s just going to be shitty jokes about how I’m terrible at this and all that. Like I don’t take this seriously.”</p><p>“You do, though,” Rose tells him, her voice warm with pride. “I’ve asked many things of you, John, some of them much more difficult than others-,” and oh, he knows what that one is alright, he’s just really happy she didn’t say the word ‘harder’, “-and I haven’t always given my full reasoning, instead simply asking you to trust me. And you have. It means a lot.”</p><p>John swallows a little, and stuffs his hands into his pockets. It means a lot to hear it, too, but it still feels hollow with what had happened rattling around in his head like cheap maracas.</p><p>“Rose? Can I ask you a question?” he finally says.</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“It might not be- a good one. For you to answer, I mean. So it’s fine if you don’t.” He’s not even sure if he should be asking it, but- he has to know.</p><p>“I’ll keep that in mind, John.”</p><p>“The TiaraTop, uh. Can you tell me what that was like?” He glances her way, and the way her expression goes all remote tells him that yeah, he really shouldn’t have asked it. “Bluh, never mind, it was dumb. Don't worry about it."</p><p>“No. Not at all. I should’ve expected you would want to know, given what Dirk said about your having seen him in it,” she says, with a faint smile. It’s not a very happy expression.</p><p>“...Yeah. It was- strange. He was acting weird, like he couldn’t even hear me, and he wouldn’t look at me either. I was- I don’t know. Worried? About my cover being blown at the party I was definitely supposed to be at, but it wasn’t, and we met up later.” He was worried about Dirk, too, then- he knows that much now. But he can’t do anything about it. “That was when he said he’d want to leave. You think the Tiara had anything to do with it?”</p><p>Rose is quiet for a long moment. “I’m going to preface this by repeating what I said earlier, that his TiaraTop was either less functional than mine, or he was more resistant to it, but it’s likely a combination of both. And this is important, because it means that my experience is simply not going to be the same as his with it.”</p><p>“Okay,” he agrees, hesitant. He hadn’t even thought about <em>Rose</em> wearing it, and it makes him sick to think that thing had been on her head, too.</p><p>(But if it had, and she’s fine. Dirk’s fine, too. He’ll be fine.)</p><p>“She gave us ours when we were thirteen. I got mine a year earlier than Dave did,” she begins. It’s hard to imagine the two of them as children- okay, it’s actually just hard to imagine Rose and Dave Crocker in the same room at all, let alone coexisting and living together for ages. Imagining Rose as like, the caring big sister type? That one’s easy. “It was framed as something terribly important, an honor bestowed, even. I was too old to truly believe that it would turn me into a Princess, or anything ridiculous like that, but I knew that it meant I was special. And there was nothing quite like having her look at you, her eyes glowing with pride. Literally, that is,” she adds. “It’s an interesting phenomenon, a case of stolen powers, I believe. But I digress.</p><p>“Dave was terribly jealous that I’d gotten mine first, but he knew better than to try to put it on. It was keyed to me, and she was the only other person who could touch it. I could put it on, and I would, when she told me to. But I could never remove it on my own, not without being explicitly told to. I think she enjoyed that, quite a lot.” Rose talks in her usual quiet way, but each word is clipped off and distant.</p><p>“Rose, you really don’t need to talk about it,” John tries.</p><p>“Yes,” she says simply. “I do. Partially because you need to understand it. Partially because- well. I wouldn’t be able to speak to Dirk about it. We are...siblings, in a sense, but not family. And likely, he would not want to hear it from me after that.”</p><p>John wants to say something about how Crocker probably doesn’t know what family is, but that’s not witty or smart or snarky, it’s just- true. It’s true, and it’s kind of fucking sad. For all that John’s alone now, in his own way, he at least had his Dad.</p><p>“I guess not,” is what he settles on. “Sorry, uh. Keep going?”</p><p>“Apology accepted. I know you had good intentions,” she reassures him with a faint smile. John definitely doesn’t say what pops into his head, which is that no matter how good his intentions are, they sure don’t seem to matter where Dirk’s concerned. It still stings, but he’s trying not to let it. “Where was I…? Ah, yes. I couldn’t remove mine on my own; she would need to be the one to take it off me. I suspect it amused her, to know that. But the case is likely different for Dirk; as he grew older, and began working, it would simply be untenable for her to be there at all times when he wore the tiara. And I’m sure she found ways to make him far more complicit.” Something ugly flits across her face for a moment, and John isn’t sure what methods those are, only that they’re very, very bad. He’s suddenly reminded of how Dirk had just <em>assumed</em> torture was on the table, immediately, and he curls his hands into fists.</p><p>“But as we’ve established, his experience was different. You mentioned that he looked uncomfortable, in pain? It was never like that for me. I would only experience headaches after wearing it, and only in the beginning while I did. Perhaps it was him, or a change in design, or the more particular details of my creation. I certainly couldn’t say. Dave certainly complained of splitting headaches whenever he had to wear his, but after some adjustments, they were gone. He was still very distressed <em>after</em> wearing it, of course, but only if he remembered what transpired while it was on. He often didn’t. I seldom forgot</p><p>“It was almost euphoric. Similar to what I imagine flying must feel like. I did not have to worry about a single thing, yet I knew my purpose, I knew why I was made, how I fit into this world, and what I needed to do. And above all, I was a part of something bigger. It was the self being subsumed into the Company, and for a time, there was no greater pleasure. It was….addictive, perhaps,” Rose says, delicately. “And after I left, after I no longer needed to worry about food or shelter, or whether or not she would catch us if I let my guard down, I confess I tried to chase the feeling and recreate it. I never could, of course. Purpose is not something that you find at the bottom of a bottle. Certainly not purpose in power, that heady.</p><p>“It took me a very long time to unpick those knots and realize that I did not want power, not as she had shown me. And when I joined a small group of trolls, outcasts who hated the Empress as much as I did, if not more, when they introduced me to their other contacts, when I put pen to paper and wrote the first in the Complacency series, I knew that there was another thing I could do. I could set myself against her, thwart her plans. And eventually, topple her from her throne. I confess that I had quite a lot more disillusionment to go through than Dirk did; he’s quite jaded, isn’t he? Cynical, even for a Crocker.” She lapses into silence, a small frown on her face.</p><p>“You made it, though,” John reminds her. Rose gets like this sometimes, maudlin but lost in composing her thoughts. It’s nothing like how Dirk is carefully silent before speaking, or weighing his every word. “And. We’re glad to have you. We’re <em>better</em> for having you, I think- I mean, like. I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for all that stuff you were doing in LA when I was just starting out.”</p><p>“I was used to being a face, and a symbol. I was used to standing for something,” Rose murmurs. “Perhaps I simply wanted to do that again, but this time, I would have chosen it. I knew the fight that I got myself into, and yet the first time I tried to speak against the Company, I couldn’t choke the words out. I stood there, in silence, and Karkat took over and gave the speech instead. I’d practiced, you know. In the mirror. I’ve been thinking of treason for so long, only to myself, that I’d forgotten it was different in front of others. Children should be seen and not heard, after all, and it seemed like the damned tiara was still in my head, her voice whispering into my ear and telling me to be good.” Rose draws her arms up, holds herself. John doesn’t think she knows she’s doing it. It looks like she’s trying to keep herself together, else she’ll fall apart, crack right down the middle. “I cannot explain it any more than that, but- she has a way of making us think that she is right, that she is above all else, that there can be neither doubt nor reproach, and any behavior out of line only served to reinforce that. The TiaraTop was simply another instrument of power. I would not wish it on anyone else.”</p><p>He’s never seen her like this, so vulnerable. Not even when he was a whole mess after he’d found out about her, when he was still dealing with the dumb trial and its aftermath. This is a piece of her, being offered, and it’s so much more than she would’ve thought to tell him before. But then again, would he have questioned her before like this? He wishes the answer were yes. He knows what it really is.</p><p>“All that, and you still showed him the picture?” John asks. He remembers the look on Dirk’s face, the way that his grip on the tablet had gone white-knuckled, how he’d gone paler.</p><p>“Would you have done differently?” Rose counters. She has to read his answer on his face, because she sighs, quiet. “Of course you would have. But- I told you earlier. We’re doing what we have to.”</p><p>John doesn’t have an argument against that. The thing is, he knows it’s true. He knows that they’re better than CrockerCorp, because Rose wouldn’t ever make Dirk or anyone else wear one of those. He knows they’re better because they like, don’t fucking brainwash people and aren’t trying to take over the world by shitty boxed cake and overblown late-stage capitalism, and then flood it or something.</p><p>Objectively, the math is simple.</p><p>But in moments like this, it doesn’t <em>feel</em> that way. And that, John doesn’t know how to deal with.</p><p>“This used to be a lot simpler, I guess.” It feels wrong to even admit it. But when he looks at Rose, there’s a faint smile on her face, sad at the edges.</p><p>“No,” she says, gentle enough that he doesn’t register what she’s saying so much as the tone, at first. “No, it wasn’t. Maybe for you, but not for me.”</p><p>“Because you left?”</p><p>“Yes, and no. I am more than she made me to be, more than she ever thought that I could. But at the same time, her hand is very much clear as the one that shaped me during my formative years.” Rose’s voice shifts, bitter and sad. “I’ve made my own choices, John, and I have ever since I decided to leave, make no mistake. But she is still such a large part of who I am, and what I do. One way or another, my life has been dedicated to her- and Roxy, in the latter part. I wouldn’t have it any other way. You have to understand it takes time, to unlearn much of what she taught us, and Dirk was there for longer than I was, he did more for her than I did.”</p><p>“I do,” he tells her. “It’s- a lot. I guess I’m still kind of learning what it was like for you.” Just her, though, not Dirk. He wouldn’t answer, if John was the one asking, and- he shouldn’t be upset or feel any type of way about it. Dirk doesn’t trust him, and that’s been well-established by now, it just. Kind of sucks.</p><p>(Before, Dirk’d had to trust John, to an extent. And John had trusted him to the same extent, maybe even a little more, and it was <em>weird</em>, sure, but it was equal. Reciprocal. Now, it’s not,” and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. That’s becoming a real recurring theme here, and John doesn’t really like it.)</p><p>“You are, yes,” she sighs. “More than I had ever thought that I would tell someone that wasn’t Kanaya. But what you also have to understand, John, is that we don’t have that time. And that is why I showed him the picture. It is something that Mother would approve of, I’m sure. But it is something that needed to be done; I can’t afford to coddle him. Nor give him the space he needs to sort through the traumas of his very recent past. Ah, you don’t need to look at me like that,” Rose turns to face him, a wry smile on her face. “I already know what you’re thinking. But there is a reason that I am in charge here, and that is simply to spare you liability for the difficult decisions. It is much easier to look the other way, isn’t it?”</p><p>There’s something light in her tone, and John knows she’s trying to bring levity into the conversation, tease him, make it easier. He wants to take the bait. Instead, he just puffs his cheeks out in a long sigh.</p><p>“It used to be,” he says, his voice small. “Now...I don’t know. I did the right thing, didn’t I?”</p><p>Rose just looks at him for a long moment.</p><p>“You did what you thought was best,” she finally says, and that- that’s not an answer, and he feels part of his chest cave in. God. This is just the worst. “John. I would offer a platitude that you did as you were told, to try and get him here, or get information. But I sense it won’t do the trick, and that’s quite alright. What you did has helped us tremendously, and you need to know that. What you also need to keep in mind, is that you didn’t force him. He chose this, and you made it happen.</p><p>“Goodness. You might be overestimating your influence, if you succeeded where a quite literal brainwashing device had largely failed.” Now that makes him crack a faint smile, despite himself. “I know that things are...different, between you now. But I would not be so quick to overlook your part in it. It takes more than you think to be shown that a different path exists, and much more to be inspired to take it.”</p><p>“Rose, he only came here because he was desperate, you heard him,” John huffs out. He’s not- fully convinced. Not when Dirk’s words are still bouncing around in his skull, because apparently once Dirk Crocker gets under your skin, it’s impossible to get him out, even though he’s gone and shed his last name like some kind of snake.</p><p>“And he never would have considered it an avenue despite his desperation, were it not for you,” she says, in the voice that leaves no room for doubt, even now.</p><p>“...Now it just sounds like he was using me to get here,” John says. Somehow, that really does not help the way he feels about this. “God. I really should’ve just- stayed out and done a couple more shows. Bluh. This sucks. I want that on the record. This? Sucks. Past John should have thought about how awkward it would be for Future John before going and doing all that.”</p><p>He’s talking out of his ass, and he knows it. John is not exactly the best at planning for the future; it’s part of why he hasn’t done as much as he maybe <em>could</em> have, before. Why he’d been content to leave so much up to Rose. And he’d been fine with that, and fine with his mistakes occasionally biting him in the ass.</p><p>They just haven’t bitten him like this before.</p><p>“If you don’t want to see him,” Rose starts, hesitant. He already knows what she’s going to say. He doesn’t need to go see Dirk if he doesn’t have to; she knows he knows that. The issue is that he wants to. He just doesn’t know whether or not he wants to see Dirk. He’d been pretty sure that Dirk didn’t want to see <em>him</em>, but he’d barely cared that John was in the room, other than to be a dick.</p><p>And, well. Being a dick is his natural setting. John can’t exactly read anything into it- and he’s not really prone to overthinking things in general, either! God. Dirk Crocker has just ruined him, it’s the worst. Making him have thoughts. Now that’s just rude.</p><p>“No,” John sighs. “It’s- it’s fine. I already said it’s easier to have the one meeting, and I meant it, but. I might not be at all of them, if that’s okay? He’s not really being super antagonistic to me, either, just you.”</p><p>“Well, I certainly drew his focus without trying to today,” Rose says, dry. “But I’ll take your word for it. A few other arrangements need to be made, in any event, but I think you’ve enough on your plate. And they’re hardly important.”</p><p>“If you say so,” John says, glancing her way. “Like. It better be a genuinely- it doesn’t matter, and not you trying to spare me something, or anything. I’m a big boy now, Rose, I had sex repeatedly with like. A war criminal. I can take it.”</p><p>“I’m not sure that’s the glowing recommendation to your mental health that you think it is,” she says, amused. “But very well. I need to move him from the basement; the situation is untenable, and frankly, it’s ridiculous. I’d like to have my books and folders back where they were. That being said- I’ll take your input into consideration, on whether or not it’s a good idea.”</p><p>“Uh. Yeah. No, I think it’s good, just- secluded, maybe? Like. I don’t think he’s going to try anything, but there’s plenty of people who’d want to try and fuck with him,” John tells her, slowly. He doesn’t even like thinking about it. And maybe Dirk would be right, about this being guilt, and maybe he’d call it misplaced, but the fact is that John’d made a promise, unspoken or not, of a safe place. Or, safer. And he’s not going to break that. “Plus, he won’t really, uh. Pull his punches, if it comes to that kind of thing.”</p><p>“Nor should he,” Rose says firmly. “I’ll look at the current space we have and see what I can do. You wouldn’t have an issue if it were in your wing, would it?”</p><p>“No. No, that’s fine. It’s pretty empty, anyway. All the guest ones are there, and those are- limited enough, I guess, that no one’s going to get antsy about him having easy weapon access.” He pauses. “Have you talked to Karkat about it? Because I’m not going to do that. I just want you to know this. He and I don’t see eye to eye about plenty things, and I think this is going to be a big one.”</p><p>“Differences over Dirk? Interesting,” is all Rose says, because she can be evil that way. She makes it sound like he’s jealous, instead of a normal person not wanting to pick any kind of fight with a loud screamy troll.</p><p>“What? No. He’s literally never heard me say anything he didn’t disagree with immediately after.”</p><p>“John. You’re aware that you do the same to him, right?”</p><p>“...Hold on. This isn’t like. I haven’t been accidentally dating Karkat, too, right?” Oh, fuck, he really hopes he hasn’t. Else he’d have cheated on Dirk- wait, that shouldn’t be his first priority, nope.</p><p>“I’m sure Karkat is aware that you two are not together,” Rose says, except she does it so diplomatically that John just <em>knows</em> someone had to explain to Karkat that he and John weren’t on the cusp of the spade one. Pitch. A name he can’t pronounce. Whatever.</p><p>It’d still make for a good joke- local idiot accidentally picks up not one, but two, hate-boyfriends, neither of which know about each other, and neither of which knows that the idiot in question <em>doesn’t</em> know they’re dating. He dodged a bullet, not being the punchline for that one. No, instead he got, still somehow hate-pining, probably, after his ex-hate-boyfriend who had a lot of accusations to make and is now trapped here with him.</p><p>“What ever,” John sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. “I just. Don’t want to deal with him now, that’s all.”</p><p>He casts his mind desperately around for a change in topic, and- ha. Yes.</p><p>“But before we split up, I wanted to ask you about Roxy.”</p><p>“Roxy? Has she rigged another glitter-bomb in your room-?”</p><p>“Oh. No. I’m, uh, still recovering from the last one,” he says, sheepish. “But I was going to ask, d’you think it’d be a good idea to have her in the next meeting?”</p><p>“Oh,” Rose says, narrowing her eyes. “Hm. Why do you ask? Did she say something about it?”</p><p>“Not quite. But she’s, uh. Bubbly. Friendly. Might be good to stop Dirk from being such a dick to you.” This had really better be a good save. But John’s pretty sure he isn’t lying; he doesn’t know whether or not Roxy has been by to visit Dirk again, but she hasn’t dropped by to complain about him, either. That can only be a good thing, right?</p><p>Either way, Rose looks like she’s seriously contemplating it. “It might be good for him to see her very firmly with us, yes,” she says, which isn’t what he’d expected. But Rose sounds very sure about it, and he- well, he doesn’t know what to make of that one. He’d always thought he was the one who knew Dirk best, by dint of having spent the most time with him, but apparently there’s been a whole lot of bonding while he was gone.</p><p>“Uh, yeah. Sure, that makes sense too?”</p><p>“It does. Thank you for your recommendation, dear,” Rose tells him, with a pleased smile. “And if you do need a break, for any reason- do let me know, and I’ll do my best to ensure that it’s tenable.”</p><p>Well, that conversation is clearly over. John holds his sigh back and watches her bustle off.</p><p>He doesn’t need a break. And even if he does, some things have to come first. If they’re really going to be moving forward with things, he needs to be here for that.</p><p>Rose hasn’t said anything too detailed about her plans, but John knows just enough strategy to realize that she’s setting up for the endgame.</p><p>God, but he hopes they win.</p><p>No- there’s no hope, here.</p><p>They’re going to. They have to.</p><p>He just wishes that would solve all his problems.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tl;dr- Dirk has a Strategy Meeting with Rose, the gears of the plot start to move, and John and Rose have a long discussion about the TiaraTop and what things might've been like for her (and also for Dirk). The implications aren't really that great.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Wakey, wakey,” comes the familiar chime of Roxy’s voice, and Dirk simply sits upright so he can look over at her.</p><p>She’s been here on and off over the past two weeks, and while his...current living situation is barely tolerable, he’ll admit to looking at it more kindly thanks to her keeping him company at times. It makes for an excellent break between lengthy debriefings- almost all of them now carried out by Karkat, who, while clearly still uncomfortable around him when it comes to mentions of things like culling, has been willing enough to strike up a rapport.</p><p>It likely helps that Dirk has kept his mouth shut about his mutation, but silence is a virtue that he’s long since learned how to use to his advantage.</p><p>It is, however, not the response that Roxy currently wants. He can sense her expectant gaze on him, so he marshals up an answer.</p><p>“Yes?” He reaches up, fingers combing lightly through his hair to try and arrange it into some semblance of order. It’s a lost cause, he’s sure, and Roxy’s seen it in worse condition, but he’d at least like to try and fool himself into thinking he doesn’t look absurd.</p><p>“Bluh, it’s so weird when you do that, y’know that?” she scrunches up her face, gesturing over at him. “Just, sit up all Frankenstein’s monster or Dracula rising from his coffin. Creepy!”</p><p>“Is it less creepy if I wasn’t sleeping that time?” he asks. Dirk stands up and goes through his usual stretches, humming a little as his back pops. This mattress is doing him absolutely no favors. “I like to think I have more raw sexual appeal than Dracula did, in any event. Jury remains out on whether I can tolerate sunlight, though.”</p><p>“Nope! And you <em>deffo</em><span> are gonna be burnt to a crisp, hon,</span>” Roxy answers cheerily, popping the ‘p’ on ‘nope’. “<em>Buuuut,</em> I think you’re gonna love the news I got for you. It’s only the sweetest of deets, the hottest of goss, y’know? Con-fi-den-shul,” she enunciates, with a wiggle of her eyebrows.</p><p>“Oh? I do love a good state secret,” Dirk says, shamelessly conspiratorial as he leans in a bit closer. He doesn’t waggle his eyebrows in return, but there’s a bit more warmth to his voice than usual. Roxy’s earned it, at this point. “It’s been too long since I’ve been able to feast on political intrigue and espionage, Lalonde, I’m <em>slavering</em> for it.”</p><p>“Ew, don’t be gross,” Roxy laughs, and the effect largely diminishes any admonishment in her voice. Not that Dirk minds at all; he’ll admit (only to himself) that he’s grown fond of her lately. Some kind of Stockholm Syndrome shit, maybe.</p><p>“I’m always gross,” he tells her, sincere. “But I’ll try and hold it back.”</p><p>“Best behavior only,” she says. Dirk just nods, and ignores the unpleasant pang those words bring. Different phrasing, no threat at all behind them.</p><p>“That, I can do,” he says instead. “So- what’s up?”</p><p>“You’re- and, a drumroll please?” She looks at him expectantly, and he pats his thigh in a careful four-count. “Oh my god, Dirk, that is <em>not</em> what I meant, it’s gotta be, y’know, exciting? Building suspense?”</p><p>“Antici….,” he trails off, raising an eyebrow at her. “Pation.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Oh- never mind. Just- something I watched when I was younger. But I think our numerous tangents and wandering discussion more than suffice when it comes to building suspense? And I’m excited. But only because literally anything different is exciting at this point. I might even jump for joy if you were taking me out to the firing squad. I’m bored, Roxy, and boredom is the enemy of the mind. My brain’s going to rot out of my ears before anyone gets the chance to blow it out, unfortunately for them. They’ll just get a soupy mess trickling out as opposed to any sort of exciting pyrotechnics, and I’ll be naught but a vegetable. Spongy and disgusting as rotted lettuce.”</p><p>“You don’t look excited,” she points out, neatly ignoring his gallows humor. He’s so unappreciated at times. “And if you were a veggie, hmmm. You’d be, uh. Carrot? Maybe?”</p><p>“What? A carrot? That’s bullshit,” Dirk frowns, playing along. “At the very least I’d be something dignified, like a zucchini. Elegant shape, elongated, rounded.”</p><p>“A dick?” she quips, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>“But of course,” he smirks back.</p><p>“I’d be a pumpkin, FYI,” Roxy tells him, apparently dead serious. She traces the letters out in the air, and then sketches what he has to assume is a pumpkin right next to it. “Gotta love me some Halloween even if mom never let me near the candy. For, like, good reasons? Turns out it literally woulda rotted my teeth out, huh.”</p><p>Dirk runs his tongue along his own teeth, and offers a shrug. “Probably would’ve done worse, depending on the year. Still doesn’t absolve her of the sin of being the neighbourhood mother who passes out celery sticks and baby carrots and raisins rather than any real goodies. But, more to the point: I never look excited, it’s a point of pride. So spill, Lalonde, else we’ll be here all day.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>fine. </em>You never let me have any fun, you know that?”</p><p>“I’m the fun police,” he deadpans. “People who have fun don’t have rights.”</p><p>“Oh my god, quit that,” Roxy says, but she’s snickering anyway. “Now do your drumroll so I can tell you the news already!”</p><p>Dirk sighs, and slowly taps his fingers against his thighs. One, two, three four.</p><p>“…Is that your drumroll?” Roxy asks, frowning a little. “It’s so. Boring. Especially for your second go? Actually, it literally sounds the same as the first time. We’re trying for, y’know. Excitement! Be bigger.”</p><p>“You didn’t say a tempo,” Dirk tells her. He used to do this to bother Dave all the time, once Mother had enrolled him in music lessons. It had been worth it at the time, but only when Mother was actually in the room. “Any sane person would therefore default to lento. And unless you want to slip some steroids into my slop, I’m afraid I’m very much done growing.”</p><p>“Ughhhhhh,” she groans, all drama. “Fine! Fine, you win. It’s moving day, c’mon. Mom’s got your new room all set up and everything.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s sure it would be embarrassingly eager in another situation, how quickly he stands up. But Dirk is beyond finished with this room- and room is a very strong word for the bare-bones cell.</span>
</p><p>“<span>Ha!” Roxy crows. She points a finger right at him. “I </span><em>knew</em><span> you could do excited! Dirky, baby, you are absolutely stoked and I know it! So just admit it.”</span></p><p>“<span>Well, there’s always the faint possibility you’re here to take me to the guillotine, but I doubt you’d be quite so cheery about it,” he tells her. “And if you were me, wouldn’t you be- faintly enthused by the prospect of, oh, I don’t know. Real doors?”</span></p><p>“<span>Good thing I’m not you, ‘cause that sounds like some boring housewife thing to be enthused by,” she teases. “Should I be gettin’ you an apron?”</span></p><p>“<span>Only the frilliest one that prompts the viewer to kiss the cook,” he suggests. Dirk resists the urge to rock back on his heels; he’s already shown his impatience enough. “Where are these new rooms? What facilities will they have? Tell me about the bathroom, first of all.”</span></p><p>“<span>Bigger than that one? Iunno, it’s not like I got in there and measured it?” Roxy mumbles that out, the keys jangling as she lets him out. “Anyhow! Let’s get goin’. Mom doesn’t actually know how much I’ve been visiting you, I’m pretty sure she only thinks it started like, this week? But the jig’s up ‘cause I kinda insisted on being the one to show you the room. Thought it’d be nice, and like- no offense, Di? But I’m </span><em>really</em><span> sick of hearing you complain about like, water pressure.”</span></p><p>“<span>It’s the housewife in me,” he deadpans, and takes a step out of the cell. “What prompted this change, anyway? Not to imply that you aren’t a wonderful listener, but I was under the impression that my complaints were falling on deaf ears. So to say. I understand that our meetings were fairly clandestine.”</span></p><p>
  <span>He understands that now, in any event. Why Roxy would let the cat out of the bag so soon when it ostensibly gave her the upper hand, or potential leverage, he doesn’t quite understand. But there’s quite a lot about her that he doesn’t understand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(He’s learning, though. Not entirely against his will.)</span>
</p><p>“<span>Weeeell, they can still </span><span>b</span><span>e kinda clandestine? Bein’ all sneaky is p fun,” she says with a shrug. “But like, keeping a secret from Mom? Is real stressful. So no real risk is prolly only gonna help me out. I’m not gonna go grey ‘cause of this.”</span></p><p>“<span>Why are you looking at me? I’m not going grey. Is Lalonde?” he asks, </span><span>fascinated by that possibility. Yes, it’s terribly petty, but Dirk is not and never has been above that</span><span>. “Because Dave certainly wasn’t, but he’s vain enough to dye it out as soon as he notices it. He spends a lot of time staring at himself in the mirror, it’s concerning.”</span></p><p>“<span>Yeaaaah, I don’t think that’s super surprising? I hope he goes bald, el em ay oh,” she snickers, and then pauses. “Wait, is this where you do a big reveal that it’s been a toupee the whole time?”</span></p><p>“<span>I wish,” Dirk sighs. “Most of the time, his hair is entirely natural and intact.”</span></p><p>“<span>Most?”</span></p><p>“<span>Most,” he says, and offers no details. Mother can be quite insistent when she grabs them, and while she’s always either grabbed Dirk by the arm or scruffed him like an unruly kitten, she often holds Dave by his hair. Hair is not necessarily made to hold up against a struggling Dave and a very infuriated tyrianblood, though Dave manhandled </span><em>him</em><span> enough in the same way that it was difficult to muster up any pity.</span></p><p>
  <span>But those are family secrets, behind closed doors. He doesn’t think Lalonde would have mentioned anything of them to Roxy, and he finds himself hesitant to bring it up himself and drag the mood down.</span>
</p><p>“<span>Let’s just say that I got creative with a razor at times,” he tells her instead, adds in a wink with the appropriate amount of warmth to it. She breaks out into a grin, wide as the sun, and his shoulders slump in relief. </span></p><p>“<span>I guess that’s good enough for me, Dirk-a-Dirk,” she says, cheery. “Now, c’mon, hop to! I’d ask if you got stuff you wanna take, but it’s like. Literally just the clothes, right?”</span></p><p>
  <span>Ah. Clothes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns, eyes the tiny set of plastic drawers that contain the items of clothing he now has to his name. Dirk re-enters the cell, and simply picks it up. He supposes he needs some kind of variety. And besides, he can’t re-wash these every day.</span>
</p><p>“<span>And my bathroom essentials. Toothbrush, toothpaste. Soap.” And nothing else. This has been absolute murder on his hair, which was a consequence he didn’t quite foresee. Without his usual array of styling products, he’s been forced to suffer. This is probably the best idea of torture that Egbert could sum up, although Dirk isn’t </span><em>nearly</em><span> as self-centered as to think that this is deliberate. Apparently the Rebellion also commits crimes against fashion aplenty.</span></p><p>
  <span>Then again, so does Dave.</span>
</p><p>“<span>...Mkay, well. Someone else is gonna be comin’ back for </span><em>those,</em><span> so.”</span></p><p>“<span>I’ll just get them,” he sighs. Dirk sets the drawers back down, dips into his rather literal water closet. He’s not particularly sorry to see the last of this. The small bottle of shower gel is dry enough, but he wraps it in his thin towel nonetheless, and his toothbrush and toothpaste, unfortunately, get tossed into the top drawer. It feels wrong on eight different levels, but it’s better than having them both fall to the floor. </span></p><p>
  <span>Roxy just looks at him for a minute, and opens her mouth- probably to offer to help, which is ridiculous. It’s one thing, and while the size makes it somewhat unwieldy, Dirk is perfectly capable of carrying it. He cuts her off before she can say anything, with, “So, do you care to lead the way, Miss Lalonde?”</span>
</p><p>“<span>Oh-! Hell yes. Hell </span><em>fuckin’ </em><span>yes,” she agrees, and she’s still smiling. Dirk is pleased to see it. “Let’s blow this tiny-ass popsicle stand, new cousin ‘o mine, and move on to, um, like. Greener grass. Better pastures. Horse metaphor?”</span></p><p>“<span>Horse metaphor,” he says. He keeps his voice as grave as he can so he can avoid smiling. It should be terrifying, how much she knows about him. Much more so when he takes into account that these are all things he has revealed, willingly. But Roxy is charismatic in a way that he’s never quite encountered before, except perhaps in John, though </span><em>that</em><span>, he’d been able to resist much better. </span></p><p>
  <span>Roxy just snickers, and starts walking. Dirk follows closely behind her.</span>
</p><p>“<span>So,” he begins. “You’re quite excited about these rooms. Care to tell me why that is?”</span></p><p>“<span>Don’t gotta listen to you complainin’ ‘bout water pressure?” she suggests, too innocent. “Ha, I wish! The water presh is </span><em>awful</em><span> everywhere and like. It sucks, Dirky, it sucks </span><em>so much</em><span> ass, I cannot even tell you. My telling you even? Can’t do it. It’s bad.”</span></p><p>“<span>I see you’re determined to be coy,” he says, amused. “Should I venture a few guesses, then?”</span></p><p>“<span>See, here’s the thing? Like, that’s deffo a fun game, right? But you’re probably scary good at guessin’, so Iunno how fun it’ll be for momma over here,” she says, gesturing widely at herself. “So, we can play, but I’m acceptin’ wrong answers only.”</span></p><p>“<span>Other than good water pressure, of course?”</span></p><p>“<span>Of course.” She’s teasing him now, using this ridiculous, overblown voice. He knows he sounds nothing like </span><span>that. He isn’t snooty. Or particularly British.</span></p><p>“<span>Alright, then. Consider this challenge accepted. You threw down the fucking gauntlet Lalonde, so you’d better be ready to catch these hands. Or hear these words, some of which I am going to try to make extremely cursed.”</span></p><p>“<span>That’s what the game’s all about, yeah,” she nods. Enthusiastic, daring. Dirk sometimes finds himself wondering what it would have been like to grow up with her as a contemporary, but he always catches himself.</span></p><p>
  <span>It wouldn’t be like this, after all.</span>
</p><p>“<span>Let’s begin. Hm. I wouldn’t be complaining about worms.”</span></p><p>“<span>Oh, worms?”</span></p><p>“<span>Exactly. Nor mold. Nor, hm. A faint beating sound under one of the floorboards, driving me mad with guilt. Though I’m sure some might be best pleased if that happened, I don’t think the hearts in question would fit there. Besides. It would smell.” Dirk frowns, shaking his head slightly. “I never understood that story.”</span></p><p>“<span>God, me neither, like. Dude, if you’re gonna kill someone, you don’t like. Keep the heart in the floor, right? There’s literally a million easy ways to do it.”</span></p><p>“<span>Exactly,” he agrees, nodding. The conversation is an easy distraction from the corridor; he still doesn’t feel welcome here- likely because he simply isn’t, and will not be, however much information he may offer- and the thought of running into someone he has not yet met is disconcerting. Dirk knows where he stands with a scant handful of people here, and the rest, he would rather not encounter.</span></p><p>
  <span>And- surely, there are more people here on a permanent basis, than just Roxy, and Lalonde, and Karkat, and the jadeblood who looks at Lalonde like she hung the moon. Egbert, he knows, is only here at times, thanks to his busy schedule. But the others- the Rebellion is no match for the Company in terms of sheer numbers, but they are voraciously active in recruitment, enough that Dirk </span>
  <em>knows</em>
  <span> he ought to have seen more people than those in the room at his trial.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Granted, he has no plans to look any gift horses in the mouth. If he has yet to meet more people, he will not question it- there’s no doubt that the seeming emptiness of this base has saved him a world of grief from those less-inclined to accept the terms of the deal. Of course, if Lalonde has yet to advertise his presence beyond those who have seen him, that would explain it- he has no doubt that she would do it, if it made things easier, and let her have the credit for obtaining a new, anonymous source. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It works best for their agreement, and Dirk is very much used to thankless work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His luck cannot quite hold, of course. And of fucking course, it’s John Egbert that it breaks on; the man is a constant thorn in Dirk’s side, and a pain in his ass (at times literal; Dirk remembers the low ache after the gala, the burn of his thighs and lower back, and he tries not to relish in it, or think of how Egbert had looked spread out under him). He’ll be ashamed of this later, but he completely loses track of what Roxy is saying, mid-sentence, her voice vanishing into the ether </span>
  <span>of who fucking knows where.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he can see is blue, blue eyes, wide with shock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems that no one had seen fit to inform Egbert of Dirk’s imminent move. Or at least </span>
  <em>when</em>
  <span> it would be happening; he’d likely want to avoid meeting as much as possible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(And no, it isn’t guilt that flares up in his chest. Dirk wasn’t built for that, was not made that way, and if he starts feeling guilty </span>
  <em>now</em>
  <span>, over John Egbert, he knows it will only be so long before his sins crush him beneath their weight. But that doesn’t get rid of the way his heart clenches, or the sick burn in the back of his throat.)</span>
</p><p>
  <strike>
    <span>All Dirk wants to do is look at him.</span>
  </strike>
</p><p>
  <span> <span>No. He doesn’t </span></span>
  <span>
    <em>want</em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> anything. He isn’t meant to, and he can’t start now. He can’t-</span>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<span>Mr. Egbert,” he hears himself say, his voice smooth as ever. His mouth is moving on autopilot. He sounds like he’s greeting John after the other has snuck into his office yet again. He sounds like he did before, how things were, and it’s such a convincing illusion Dirk ought to have gotten that Oscar instead of Dave, last year. He sounds every bit a Crocker still, and every bit a </span></span>
  <span>
    <em>lie</em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>, because everything that made him who he was, is gone. </span>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <span>He hasn’t felt it so acutely before. Perhaps because he hasn’t seen Egbert without Lalonde at his side, not since Dirk had ended things for good. Perhaps because he’s made himself not think of it; there was no helping it, not even when he spent four straight hour vomiting on his first day here. </span>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <span>Dirk is horrified to find his focus crumbling like this. His control slipping. That- was all he had left. </span>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<span>Dirk,” is all John says. He sounds surprised. Hurt. Not happy to see him, but then again, when has John Egbert ever been truly happy to see him?</span></span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <span>Dirk had not been the only liar, after all. He presses his lips flat together. </span>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<span>Pleasure to see you,” he answers, clipped and polite. He can’t even muster up the appropriate bland smile for this moment. He wasn’t meant to be so shaken; he’s meant to be prepared, ready, but nothing could have prepared him for the full force of John’s attention on him, without anything to dilute or distract. He wants to crawl out of his skin. He wants to shove Egbert away. He wants to close the distance between them.</span></span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <span>He wants-</span>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <span>No.</span>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <span>He doesn’t. </span>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <span>He cannot want what he can’t have. Dirk lets out a slow breath, and looks away. He makes sure his expression gives nothing away. John Egbert is nothing to him, not anymore, and Dirk himself made very sure of that. He’s burnt that bridge so thoroughly he ought to be jailed for arson, rather than treason. </span>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<span>We should go,” he tells Roxy, dispassionate. He doesn’t like how </span></span>
  <span>
    <em>she</em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span> has been watching this entire situation, either. “The room awaits.”</span>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <span>Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Egbert open his mouth to say something. He shoots Roxy a pleading look, as best he can. This is the closest that Dirk has come to begging in years. </span>
  </span>
</p><p>“C’mon, Dirk,” Roxy says, a hand resting delicately at his elbow. She’s a saint. He feels simultaneously too big and too small for his skin, and that hideous <span>thing in his chest threatens to claw its way out, come hell or high water. Or both. </span><span>He</span> doesn’t flinch away from the touch, but it’s a near thing.</p><p>He keeps his posture perfect, though, his face a blank mask. He knows better than to let anyone know he’s bothered by it- least of all the one doing the bothering.</p><p>“Right. Lead the way,” he tells Roxy. He doesn’t smile; it’d be out of place and he doesn’t need to. “These hallways look entirely identical to me.”</p><p>“You get used to it,” she advises with a warm smile that does nothing to settle his nerves at all. But she doesn’t say anything else, just gestures for him to keep walking. So he does, refusing to look back. He holds on tight to these shitty, rough sheets that he knows are going to make him itch all night, and keeps his chin up on the entire journey to his new accommodations. It takes about two minutes, by his estimate; it’s all of one left turna way from where they’d left Egbert in the hallway, two hundred and ten footsteps at medium stride for Roxy to keep up with easily. Counting them had not quite soothed him, nor had looking at the faint lines in the tile, the flecks of grey against the white. It’d be less if he walked on his own. It’d be less if John did the walking- he’s always moved like he’s got somewhere to be, right away.</p><p>He’s pleased to be out of the cell; of course he is. A room with a door, and one that locks from the inside, is a hell of a luxury to him right now, even if it’s devoid of windows, air ducts, and furniture other than a bedframe currently bolted to the floor and a shitty old couch that looks like it’ll strenuously object to being sat on.</p><p>He can still feel John’s gaze, heavy on his back. It burns at the back of his throat, all the way down to his chest. He tries to ignore it, in favor of moving further into the room. He drops one box down on the couch, and it creaks. He can feel the weight of the inevitable conversation start to fill the room, too, and he braces himself for impact.</p><p>“So,” Roxy starts, awkwardly. There it is.</p><p>Dirk supposes that he should’ve expected this, in particular. Roxy’s been spending more and more time with him lately; she’s clearly meant to be his babysitter as opposed to Egbert now that he’s here on a more permanent basis (and has apparently proven himself trustworthy enough that she comes and goes as she pleases to be alone with him, just ‘chilling like a couple of villains’ as she says). It was only a matter of time until John himself came up in conversation. It still hits him like a brick wall, though, and he’s stunned into silence, discomposed in a way he despises.</p><p>“What?” he asks, turning to face her.</p><p>“John. I asked what was goin’ on between you two?” she prompts.</p><p>Dirk really wishes he could blame the fact that he actually <em>wants</em> to answer on how he’s meant to serve and <b>OBEY</b> her, but. It’s just Roxy, at this point.</p><p>“Nothing,” he answers.</p><p>“Uh huh.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“’Nothing’ isn’t an answer, Di,” she sighs out, shaking her head. She clicks her tongue a little, disapproving, and the sound only makes him want to die inside a little. The rest is all embarrassment.</p><p>“It’s a reply to your question, ergo an answer,” he tells her. Can’t be too accommodating, especially not on this. But Roxy is too good at getting information out of him, and Dirk knows he’s precisely the kind of pathetic to be so susceptible to wide eyes and a few kind words, so he relents. “But, it <em>is</em> an answer. There’s nothing going on between us.”</p><p>“And is that why you’re all- weird, about him?”</p><p>“I’m not weird about him.” Dirk pauses, and considers this. “No weirder than you find me on a regular basis, I think. I’m just- I have to be polite, don’t I? Our interactions are on a strictly professional capability, as it were.”</p><p>“Huh.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Nothing! Just kinda maybe sorta….,” she pauses, puffs her cheeks out and exhales. “Think that’s a load of bee-es?”</p><p>“I’m a prisoner,” he reminds her, curt. Roxy flinches at the words, or maybe it’s his cold, matter-of-fact tone, and guilt flickers briefly in his chest at it. “And he had a big part to play in bringing me here. He is, technically, one of my wardens. So, it’s professional on his end, and enforced on mine, that I mind my manners and don’t talk to him unless necessary. It’s only necessary in those interrogations Lalonde keeps subjecting me to, though I’ve no idea why he needs to be present for them. It’s not in my interests to lie, and he wouldn’t be able to tell if I were, anyway.”</p><p>“Am I? A warden too, I mean?” Roxy’s frowning now, straightened up and looking right at him. It’s a softer expression of displeasure than he’s used to, maybe that’s why it cuts him right to the bone. “<em>Technically</em>.”</p><p>“You….are not responsible for keeping me here,” Dirk says as delicately as he can manage. Because she isn’t. And despite how tempted Dirk is to blame her for it too, sometimes, he knows that’s unfair. “Whether or not you have authority over me- well. Everyone here has it, don’t they?”</p><p>“Ugh- you’re just, impossible? You know that? Not even answerin’ any questions straight.” She genuinely does sound upset, and again, that twinge in his chest. Roxy is easy to spend time with, too easy at times, but- when she’s upset, when she gets anxious, he still has that <em>feeling</em><span>. And he still can’t tell if it’s programmed into him or if it’s real. He’ll never tell her this; it doesn’t matter, and he knows she’s so far removed from what he is that she wouldn’t understand. And, well. It would likely hurt her. </span>“I mean- it ain’t that hard, Dirk! Fucksake, just be honest, okay? You can, like. Tell me the truth about stuff like this. All I wanna know is what the heck that was back in the hallway with all the staring and all the awkwardness!”</p><p>He wants to know that, too. He’d been blind-sided. Dirk looks away instead.</p><p>“I don’t understand what you want me to say. Nothing’s going on between Mr. Egbert and myself, I answered your question already,” he tells her. It’s not a concession, and he doesn’t…really know what to do, with the knowledge that her being upset makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest, harsher this time. “I didn’t expect to see him. It took me my surprise.”</p><p>She takes a deep breath as she thinks that over, and the tension seeps out of her frame. Good, that’s good. And then she looks at him, narrowing her eyes a little.</p><p>“Are you doing that thing where you don’t want to give me any details so you’re only going to answer questions by, like, the exact wording ‘n stuff?”</p><p>He can’t even pretend that’s not what he’s doing. “I didn’t know you were paying enough attention to know that I made a habit of it.”</p><p>“Oh my god. You are. You keep deflecting that way,” she says, except it’s not upset this time, and instead it’s the glee of someone who’s just figured out how to get their way. The cat that got the cream, since that’s a very fitting metaphor for her. “Okie-dokie, I can work with that.”</p><p>“You can?” he asks, now very much wary.</p><p>“Ohhh, yes,” Roxy agrees, rubbing her hands together for dramatic effect. At least, he hopes for dramatic effect. He gets the sense that she’s been wanting to do this for a while. She looks like she has a fucking <em>list</em> of answers she wants. “It’s lightning round time.”</p><p>“I guess we’re doing this. We’re making it happen,” he says, solemnly.</p><p>“Not to like, quote imperial propaganda or anything, but. Fuck yes we are,” she beams. “Sooo. Do you hate seeing him at the meetings?”</p><p>“Define hate.”</p><p>“Do you wish he wasn’t there?”</p><p>“Sometimes, yes.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“He keeps interrupting.”</p><p>“Are there other reasons?”</p><p>“This seems unfair.”</p><p>“Diiiiiiiirky.”</p><p>“Fuck. Fine, yes there are.”</p><p>“What are they?”</p><p>“He’s distracting.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“And…I don’t understand why he’s there. He should be out in the field, he was always on missions before.”</p><p>“Why do you say that?”</p><p>“Because he always said he was out on missions when he came to annoy me and break into my office.”</p><p>“What, he couldn’t have been lying? Mom always says that men are nothing but dirty liars, Dirky. John’s a man.”</p><p>“Well. True. But is he a dirty liar?”</p><p>“I think he’s a big, fat liar.”</p><p>“You’re going to need to explain the difference between a big, fat liar and a dirty liar. I only know sleazy liar,” he deadpans.</p><p>“Big, fat liars aren’t as good at lying, and don’t lie to try and hurt your feelings or get stuff they want, I think? They’re not trying to trick you.” Damn, he didn’t think she’d actually have an answer for that one. “Do you blame him?”</p><p>“No. Why is everyone asking me that?”</p><p>“Who’s everyone?”</p><p>“John first, then your mother, then you.”</p><p>“You’re a logical guy, and it’s a logical thing to do? Blaming him, I mean. But also asking you if you do, since you kind of have to be around him.”</p><p>“I don’t think I do. He probably should be out doing actual work instead of lingering around here, though. The efficiency around this place is- concerning. Everyone just does what they want.”</p><p>“Yeaaaah, that’s kinda how free will works? Iunno what else to tell you, babes. Anyway. You ever think maybe he’s helping with the planning?”</p><p>“John Egbert is many things, but I don’t think he’s got the hand for subtle strategy that your mother does. Does she like to bounce ideas off of him, then?”</p><p>“She does! He’ll tell her when she’s overthinking. And he used to be the one with the most up to date information on the White House layout ‘n stuff.” Roxy shrugs, unapologetic about saying that to the reason that John had all that information in the first place. “Plus he knew where the Carnival was and what it was doing because of it, so. That was pretty helpful, those weird clowns are kind of hard to keep track of.”</p><p>“That’s fair, I guess. The clowns are a universal pain in the ass.”</p><p>“They sure a- hey, don’t try and distract me with clown bashing. Would you be mad if you saw more of John?”</p><p>“Mad at who?”</p><p>“Him? Or whoever arranged it, I guess.”</p><p>“Why, Ms. Lalonde, it sounds like you’re plotting something.”</p><p>“Me? I would never.” Roxy bats her lashes, trying and largely failing to look innocent.</p><p>“I don’t know why it matters, that I’d be upset with you over it. He’s- your friend,” he says, after a moment. Because he knows that’s true. Roxy and John care about each other, even if John is a bit more Rose’s friend than he is hers. And Dirk knows those bonds are important to her.</p><p>“Yeah, but. So are you?” she says it like it’s obvious, like anyone alive has ever said it to Dirk before, and he feels like he’s just been sucker-punched. The room’s suddenly too small, the air sucked right out of it. He isn’t- he can’t be. They’re two people bound by circumstance and dubious ectobiology-based genetics, who should be enemies. In another life, he’d have died for her.</p><p>In this one-</p><p>“I. Am,” he says, and it’s not so much agreement as it is asking for confirmation.</p><p>“Yes, dummy, you are,” she says, rolling her eyes fondly.</p><p>In this one, he still would.</p><p>What the fuck have these people done to him?</p><p>(Because he wouldn’t hesitate, and that means it goes beyond her being fuschia and the prodigal Heiress. He’d hesitate, if it were Dave. Dave wouldn’t even think about it, if it were him; the only loyalty like this they know is to Mother, not to each other, and that- well. That was bred and beaten into them.)</p><p>(But all Roxy fucking Lalonde has to do is smile. She’s terrifying.)</p><p>“I wouldn’t be mad at either of you,” he finally says. “God. I’d be sitting in re-education for it for <em>ages</em>, since forgiveness isn’t really something we’re meant to <em>do</em>, but. I’d be okay with it. If he wanted to see me. Which,” Dirk is quick to add, pointing a finger at Roxy. “He isn’t. So quit that.”</p><p>“Back to the questions, then,” she says, unrepentant. “What if he does?”</p><p>“Does what?”</p><p>“Does want to see you, dork.”</p><p>“All that shit about being friends and you can’t even remember how to say my name?” he asks, deliberately deflecting now. He knows she’s going to get on his case for it, but there’s no way that John wants to see him.</p><p>“You said you weren’t Dirk Crocker anymore,” she points out. “So you can be…Dork, um. Dork Something. Dork Doe?”</p><p>“…A name with some dignity. Please, Roxy. That’s all I ask. Literally John Doe would be better, but alliteration in first and last names is for fucking cutesy couples who add a bunch of ‘a-e’s into their kids’ names and don’t pronounce it right.”</p><p>“…Okay, I’m scared to ask and stuff, but what’s pronouncing it right?”</p><p>“Traditionally, it makes an ‘i’ sound, like ‘eye.’ Long ‘i’.”</p><p>“Wait. No. It’s an ‘a’ sound, like bae. ‘Ay’.”</p><p>“Nope,” Dirk shakes his head. “You could make a case for it being a long ‘e’ sound, if you wanted, but the original Latin pronunciation is with an ‘i.’ So, not bae, but ‘bi’. Technically.”</p><p>“Wow. What the fuck,” she says, clearly revelling in the new information. “Mind fuckin’ blow, Di. But not too blown to get back to the topic at hand, so nice try. You can’t pull one over on me.”</p><p>“It was worth a go. And you learned something from it.”</p><p>“Yeah. That you’re pedantic as all get out.”</p><p>“Well- fair.”</p><p>“Back to the lightning round!” Roxy claps her hands together, a sharp noise, and gives him a wicked smile. Oh, no.</p><p>“I just want to let it be known that I think you’re taking advantage of the fact that you’re my first friend here.”</p><p>“I’ll keep it in mind, but don’t worry, this is what friends do,” she informs him, so assured that he doesn’t bother voicing his doubts on the matter. “Why do you think he doesn’t wanna see you?”</p><p>“I was a dick the last time we met.” A pause, and she gives him an unimpressed look. “Okay, more so than usual. It wasn’t great, he stormed out.”</p><p>“The fact that you get John Egbert, chill guy extraordinaire, to storm out of anywhere is very impressive,” Roxy tells him earnestly. This does not help him feel better about the situation. It sets his skin crawling again. “Like, damn Di, do you get on his nerves. And I didn’t even know he had that many nerves to get on if it didn’t involve getting pied.”</p><p>“Getting…pied?”</p><p>“Y’know. A pie to the face?”</p><p>“Like. The pratfall comedy bit?” This is not making any sense, but he lets the cadence of her voice draw him in, anyway. It’s a welcome distraction.</p><p>“Yeah, exactly! I pulled one over on him, lemon meringue <em>right</em> on his face. His glasses got stuck in it,” she snickers. Dirk allows himself a small smile; it <em>is</em> an amusing image. He should’ve done that before, he’s sure that the reaction would’ve been hilarious, and an instant win for him. But- if he’d made a pie, then he’d have been obligated to include specific incapacitating ingredients, and, well.</p><p>Dirk lets out a breath. He’s been protecting Egbert a lot longer than he likes to admit, most days.</p><p>“What’s with the sad face?” Roxy’s foot nudges his own. He nudges back, idly.</p><p>“I’m not making any kind of a sad face,” he says automatically. “I’m just thinking about how it was before, I guess.”</p><p>“Do you miss that?”</p><p>“It wasn’t sustainable,” he offers instead of a real answer. “Someone would have found out eventually, if they didn’t already know. Before I left, Mother asked me about my quadrants. I’m still not entirely sure if it was normal maternal prying, or fishing for something more specific.”</p><p>“Oh. Is that- part of why you left?” Roxy’s more timid about asking this than any of the others, but that doesn’t stop Dirk from flinching slightly at the question. He hates himself for that involuntary reaction.</p><p>“A little,” he admits. Dirk doesn’t look at her- he can’t. It’s safer to stare at the wall instead, count the hairline cracks and look for imperfections in its smooth face. “She wouldn’t have been pleased, and she would have found out eventually. I don’t know if it would’ve been worse to have her find out first, or have Dave do it. Probably the second one.”</p><p>He realizes belatedly that his fingers have curled into fists without him knowing. That won’t do. He makes a conscious effort to relax.</p><p>“Can we not talk about this?” he asks, flicking a glance over at her. It’s a tacit admission of weakness, two huge spots she could exploit however she wanted, or could tell her mother to exploit, but. Dirk doesn’t think that she will. But just in case-, “and can you…not tell anyone I said that?”</p><p>“Dirk,” she sighs, and her voice is so overflowing with pity it stings. “I think- you could talk to Mom about this? I mean. Not that you have to or anything, but….,” Roxy trails off into a sigh.</p><p><em>If anyone could understand, she could</em>, goes unsaid in the air between them. As does <em>I wish I could get it.</em></p><p>He looks away.</p><p>“I’ll think about it,” he lies. It’s easy enough to do, no matter the twinge of guilt he feels at how relieved she looks. This is the last thing he wants to talk to anyone about, let alone Rose fucking Lalonde, who has enough hooks in him as it is.</p><p>She purses her lips, and Dirk does not like how she looks at him as if she can see right through his skull and to the thoughts there.</p><p>“Do more than think, m’kay? Like. Not to push or anything. But. Mom’s good to talk to, about stuff like that? And I know she’s real overprotective of me ‘n all that <em>but</em><span> I figure it’d be good for y’all to chat shit out.” She stands up, dusts her hands off like she’s cleaning off the entire conversation. “Okay! Well. You’d better settle down and like, inspect the bathroom or whatever before you start critiquing the shower head uhhh water shooter distribution, so I’mma head out, I’ve got a couple of errands to run. I’ll be back with dinner, so we can eat together properly, okay?”</span></p><p>“Okay,” Dirk says, nonplussed. It’s the only acceptable answer, he’s fairly sure. “I’ll see you soon, and I’ll have a detailed written report about the features and bugs of the bathroom by the time you’re back.”</p><p>“Gross,” she grins. Roxy wiggles her fingers at him in an approximation of a wave, as she saunters out.</p><p>Instead of going to the bathroom, he sits himself on the bare mattress. The linens are folded neatly at the foot of it, and while he despises the concept alone of sitting on nothing but mattress, he needs a moment.</p><p>He’s said so much more than he meant to. That’s horrifying.</p><p>The worst part is that it feels- good. To talk, to be heard. To know that she's listening, but not to use this against him.</p><hr/><p>John’s just finished not having a panic attack of any kind when there’s a knock at his door. Okay, four knocks in a row, and a chirpy voice telling him to open up else he’s going to be put in basement jail and mom’s gonna be mad about it.</p><p>Well. He can’t say no to that one.</p><p>He opens up the door, and there’s Roxy, hand lifted mid-knock. She looks up at him sheepishly.</p><p>“You were done- fast,” he says, after a second. Oh, god, that’s so awkward. “I mean. I thought you’d stay longer? In the new room.”</p><p>“<em>Well</em><span>,” she drawls out as she comes in. Just brushes past him and plops down on his little couch like she owns the place, which maybe she does, if she’s set to inherit? But she’s not going to for a long time, hopefully. He wants Rose to be alive for a good while yet. “Dirk wanted to like, become one with the shower or whatever, and I do </span><em>not</em><span> have the patience t’just wait around for him to do that and do nothing, and, um. There’s not exactly a </span><em>lot</em><span> in there? He’s in a </span><em>room</em><span> room, like one of the weird hotel ones.”</span></p><p>“Yeah.” Okay, that’s not a real response. Come the fuck on, Egbert, get it together. You can’t be that shocked by seeing your ex in a hallway when you knew he was going to be moving at some point in the future.</p><p>
  <span>(But the way Dirk had spoken to him at first, before going freezing cold. That- ugh. He’s not dumb enough to have hope, because if the relationship is based on hate, of course he’s going to sound like he hates John </span>
  <em>afterwards</em>
  <span>, because he hated him before, too!)</span>
</p><p>(Rose would probably have a lot to say about his pathological need to be liked or something, but this is his head and he does not have to like, indulge her, or pretend to be here, so he’s not. He’s just a little bit annoyed, maybe, that Dirk’s still acting so chill (literally?), and he apparently can’t keep it together.)</p><p>(This is actually the worst.)</p><p>Oh, fuck. Roxy’s been talking. Should he just smile and nod? No, she looks like she’s expecting a real answer.</p><p>“Sorry,” he says, awkward. “Mind repeating that? I spaced out a bit. Must be more tired than I thought, haha.”</p><p>“<em>Ha!</em><span>” Roxy crows triumphantly, with no fucking context at all. John’s pretty sure that just caused a seismic disturbance or something, it was so loud. He nearly jumps out of his skin. “I knew it.”</span></p><p>“What? What did you know? I just asked you to say it again, whatever you said.”</p><p>“<span>I know plenty, </span><em>Mr. Egbert</em><span>,” and there she is, saying it the same way that Dirk did. The good news is that he has </span><em>not</em><span> been conditioned to respond really badly to his name being said that way. The bad news is that he’s now just thinking about Dirk saying it, which is probably making his lack of conditioning a moot point. </span><span>Goddammit. Dirk is really the last thing he needs to be thinking of, but he can’t get the guy off his mind. What the fuck, man. </span></p><p>“<span>You’re a very smart and capable young lady, your mom says,” he hedges. “You know plenty of things, so. Yeah? I’m not gonna disagree, except I kind of think you’re getting at something specific and I also kind of think that you have the wrong idea. About whatever that is.”</span></p><p>“<span>Mmmhm.”</span></p><p>“Have I ever told you that you sound like your mom sometimes?” John asks, uselessly, because apparently Roxy decides to take this as a compliment. Ugh.</p><p>“Nope! But she’s real terrifyin’ sometimes and so I prolly need to channel it, y’know?”</p><p>“I mean. I don’t think you should practice on me.”</p><p>“<span>Buuuut. I need to? So, like. Here we are. Sit tight, Johnny boy, we’re gonna </span><em>do</em><span> this.” Oh, he does not even remotely trust the expression on her face. “’Cause I have an idea, and I thought you were gonna need a lotta convincing, but now? Nah, I’m not so sure. Momma Lalonde over here thinks that there is somethin’ </span><em>afoot</em><span> and that’s a-okay ‘cause it’s gonna work her favor.”</span></p><p>“Should I be worried about how you’re calling yourself Momma Lalonde?” he tries, a last-ditch stab at distraction.</p><p>“Nope! There’s plenty of other things y’can worry ‘bout if you really wanna, but that ain’t really your style, hon,” she says. Undeterred. He suspects part of this is Dirk’s influence- Roxy was a lot easier to dissuade before he came along. He...doesn’t really like thinking about that, either, which is ridiculous. They’re related, one. And even if they weren’t Dirk isn’t into women, he’s pretty sure.</p><p>
  <span>O</span>
  <span>kay, now is not the time to wonder exactly how much John assumed he knew about Dirk but in fact didn’t, because they never talked about it, or anything personal. He knows Dirk, he just- doesn’t know him. </span>
</p><p>“It could be,” he finally says. “But, okay, it’s not right now, and I have to just man up and admit that one, huh?”</p><p>“And quit stallin’,” Roxy adds. What a fucking gremlin. He’s going to tell Rose she raised a fucking gremlin, and maybe break out some wine to deal with that fact. Or, like. Sparkling grape juice. He can have the wine alone.</p><p>“<span>I’m not stalling! You’re stalling, you’re the one who had something to say,” he huffs. “But fine. I’m </span><em>guessing</em><span> this is Dirk-related?”</span></p><p>“<span>Got it in one, babe!” She snaps her fingers and everything. Her smile widens. This is definitely not good. “So. I noticed all the weird </span><em>looks</em><span> y’all were giving one another in the hallway, and I know things’ve been pretty fucked, but. I’ve got an idea.”</span></p><p>“An idea.” John tries to sound as doubtful as he can, to cover up how embarrassed he is, because apparently he’s really fucking obvious, wow. “And- okay, there were no weird looks, I was just surprised to see him.”</p><p>“Uh huh. But not upset to see him, right?” Roxy leans in, suddenly serious.</p><p>“No! No,” he repeats, shaking his head. “I mean- you’re not wrong that things are like, pretty fucked. But I don’t hate him or anything. Okay. Maybe I still hate him a bit? Apparently the hatred was a good thing, Rose told me. Or the key thing. I still haven’t wrapped my head around the uh, quarters thing.”</p><p>
  <span>Roxy just blinks at him, uncomprehending, and- okay, apparently she has yet to be introduced to the concept. And he definitely is not the person to explain it. He’s pretty sure he got the name wrong, even if he’s thought a lot about what Rose had said the pitch stuff was. And a lot about what Dirk’s behavior had been like, with that in mind. And now he </span>
  <em>knows</em>
  <span> he keeps looking for signs of the same thing directed at him, all familiar gestures but in a new context, and he can barely find </span>
  <em>any</em>
  <span>. And it sucks. </span>
</p><p>“Okay. So, like. You wouldn’t never want to see him again, is my point.”</p><p>“Why does everyone keep asking me that? Have you been talking to your mom about this? Because seriously, I know she means well, but it is just not her business to try and- push me into not seeing him!” John doesn’t realize until the end how loud he’d gotten, and he shrinks into himself, sheepish. “Jeez. Sorry, Rox. It’s just been a recurring point between us.”</p><p>“I’m just gonna take that as a no,” she says. “And- I’m sorry about mom, too. She didn’t mention it, I promise- this uh, is all from talking to Dirk?”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>John hopes he doesn’t look as desperately hopeful as he thinks he does.</p><p>Roxy’s smile tells him that his face is giving everything away.</p><p>“Okay, well, I don’t want to talk about it,” he warns her, before she can get any ideas. “Seriously, Roxy, don’t give me that look.”</p><p>She does not, in fact, stop giving him that look. The look probably intensifies. God, why couldn’t he have been way older than her? Maybe she’d have respected him then. But then again, probably not.</p><p>“I <em>could</em> drop it,” she starts.</p><p>“Yes. Please. Drop it and put it down the garbage chute and let’s just not think about it or talk about it again.”</p><p>“Or-,” of course there’s an or. The grin widens. “<em>Or</em>, I could tell you what he’s said about you.”</p><p>“Uh. Okay, well. That seems very unfair and a betrayal of his trust?” John hazards. Oh, god, he wants to know what the fuck is going on in Dirk’s head so badly. Why is he even giving her the chance to back out? Right, because he’s still trying to be a good person, no matter <em>what</em> Dirk not-Crocker has to say about it. He’s done enough damage, he’s pretty sure.</p><p>“He never said not to tell you, and besides. Dirky’s a real smart guy, and like. I’m pretty sure he knew that when I said I had errands to run, one of ‘em was comin’ here to talk to you,” Roxy says with a shrug. John can’t even dispute it; there’s no way that she wouldn’t have needled him about the hallway incident, and there’s no way that Dirk wouldn’t have assumed that she’d come here to poke her nose into it.</p><p>Somehow, this is worse.</p><p>“Well, if he wants to talk to me, he should just do it,” John says, stubbornly. “It’s not like <em>I’m</em> the one who was shitty to him the last time we spoke.”</p><p>“So you won’t talk to him unless he apologizes?” Roxy asks. She sounds- cautious, now, which would be a welcome change if it didn’t make him way more suspicious. “I’m gonna be real, I’m not sure he like. Knows how.”</p><p>“Of course he doesn’t know how,” John mutters. “He probably doesn’t know how to feel bad about it either.”</p><p>“John,” Roxy says. She’s using the ‘you’re being a dick now and I’m not really appreciating it’ voice, which is a new one for her lately, but it’s getting a lot of practice. Unfortunately, no one here’s really that nice.</p><p>He sighs. “No. I know, that was unfair to him. I get why he was upset, honestly, and if he didn’t want to talk to me at all, I’d get it. I just don’t know what <em>that</em> was.”</p><p>There’s also something about knowing that Dirk is so much closer, that he could just walk out of his room and knock on the guy’s door and it wouldn’t even take five minutes, that makes this worse. It’s never been that easy to see him, or find him, but it’s not like they can make use of it.</p><p>“Welp. Me neither,” she shrugs. “He’s weird like that, y’know? I know I talked a lot ‘bout the Carapacians ‘n stuff when we last talked about him- and, like. I was right! But also not right, ‘cause once you get those lil dudes going they just keep on chattering, it’s real cute. Didja know I got to spend a bunch’a time with ‘em the other day? Like, just vibing? I think it’d be neat if we could get Dirk to do that kinda thing, but.” Roxy puffs her cheeks out, lets them deflate with her breath. Yeah, John kind of agrees with that. He isn’t sure who he’s more worried about in that situation, which arguably doesn’t help it.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says. “How are they, though? Not to shift the topic, or anything. But how are they?”</p><p>Roxy waggles a finger at him. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doin’ there, Johnny! You won’t distract Roxy Lalonde <em>that</em> easy.”</p><p>“I’d never,” John tells her, as piously as he can manage. It’s not really that great; the last time he had to be pious was when he and his dad last went to Christmas mass like six years ago. And that was mostly just keeping his head down. “I know you’ll just come back to this, anyway, because you’re weirdly obsessed with him.”</p><p>“Moi? You’re the one being all mopey and having to leave and having like ten different crises over his cute butt,” she huffs.</p><p>“Why are you staring at his butt?”</p><p>“John! You’re missin’ the point, babes. You’re the one starin’ at his butt and having a crisis over it. I look at his face and call him cute and watch <em>him</em> have the crisis,” she explains, and. Yeah. John doesn’t think he’s been staring that much, but he <em>is</em> pretty sure Dirk would combust if anyone called him cute.</p><p>Maybe he can try that as an icebreaker, get his neck snapped, and not have to deal with this awkwardness?</p><p>“Okay, fine. Just lay your plan on me, because you have the face of a Lalonde plotting something, and I’m going to get, like. Hives or something if you keep it up,” John tells her. He doesn’t bother trying to be stern about it- he’s not her dad, and just because he knows what a stern fatherly figure sounds like does not actually mean he can pull it off. “And also you’re obviously kind of dying to tell me.”</p><p>“You just suck the fun outta things sometimes, y’know that?” she asks, folding her arms over her chest.</p><p>“I am literally the most fun person you know, so take that back. Who <em>else</em> was going to wage an epic prank war of attrition against Karkat with you, huh?”</p><p>“Okay, well, the bar is just low! Mom and Dirk actively work to bury it like fifteen feet deeper every time they open their mouths,” she huffs. John can’t actually argue with that. He’s sure that Rose, like. <em>Can</em> have fun. But whether she lets herself do it is a whole other can of worms.</p><p>“<em>Anyway</em>,” Roxy continues. “I have like, the best plan. You two are gonna watch movies together.”</p><p>“We’re going to what now.”</p><p>“Movies, John. You’re gonna watch ‘em. Together, with like, popcorn ‘n stuff, maybe.” She’s looking at him like this is a really easy concept to understand, and- okay, yes, John knows how movie nights work, he’d had plenty of them when he was a kid, either him and his dad hanging out and watching old Laurel and Hardy tapes on VHS, and then later on with his friends, staying up late to watch Jurassic Park or Con Air or Face Off. It’s just adding <em>Dirk</em> to the equation that’s throwing him off. He doesn’t even know if Dirk knows what a movie is.</p><p>“Roxy, no offense, but that’s the dumbest plan I’ve ever heard,” he tells her. “One, he doesn’t want to hang out with me! Two, uh. Since when does he watch movies? Three, that’s super weird and you also have to be there.”</p><p>“Well, three, I <em>will</em> be there, silly, at least for the first one. T’see if you two can really get it workin’ out okay, make sure the vibes are good. I can suck it up and be a weird convo buffer for <em>one</em> night for a couple of hours,” she says, holding one finger up. A second’s added to that as she continues: “Two, everyone watches movies, seriously, and I think he’ll like ‘em! There’s <em>no</em> way he got to see anything that was like, actually good, I bet. So now we get to show him ‘n figure out what he likes. I’ve already been givin’ him some books, he reads real fast, so like, we can start with stuff like the books.”</p><p>This seems like a bad idea to John, because if there was anyone who’d complain about the movie not being accurate to the book, it’s Dirk. Like, sure, this is just based on vibes, but he’s so nitpicky about literally everything else- and just because they haven’t spoken, not really, doesn’t mean that’s changed- that John is really, really sure Roxy is just asking for trouble here.</p><p>“And <em>one</em>, I’m p sure he’s not against it against it, he just needs a tiny lil push. And it’s not like <em>you</em> don’t want to see him,” she says, expectantly.</p><p>God. Maybe he really should’ve just stuck to Rose as his confidante with this, but- no. That’s definitely a bad idea, he can’t just tell her he’s being stupid about her kid brother.</p><p>“I don’t <em>not</em> want to see him,” he hedges. “But I just- don't think this is going to work. Like, he's not going to agree. So there.”</p><p>“You just leave that one up to me,” Roxy says, and the look on her face honestly and truly makes him pity both Dirk and himself more than he has in ages. She's so like her mom sometimes that it's scary.</p><p>This is just not going to end well.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Impressively, Roxy’s scheme takes about a week to manifest.</p><p>Less impressively, it involves her ‘accidentally forgetting’ that she had something to do that night, and bailing right after frog-marching a very reluctant- he thinks, it’s still hard to read- looking Dirk to his door.</p><p>They both turn to watch her retreating back, and she still somehow manages to look really smug about this whole plan despite not actually looking at them.</p><p>“Hi,” John says. His voice cracks on the vowel, fuck. This is already a fucking trainwreck, isn’t it. He- okay, he said he’d do it, and it can’t be that bad. It can’t.</p><p>“We can just tell her that we watched the movie and not actually watch it,” is the first thing that Dirk says to him. John’s heart sinks. Not- for any reason other than he’d maybe been hoping to watch Con Air again for the first time in a while. It’s not a good movie, sure, but he can be nostalgic about it.</p><p>“I’m pretty sure she’ll ask you a bunch of detailed questions, and then ask me a bunch of detailed questions, and then like. Superglue us to a chair or something if she finds out we lied, and make us watch it,” John tells him. He’s not even kidding. He knows she’ll do it, even if he hopes she won’t.<br/>
There’s quiet for a moment as Dirk digests that.</p><p>“...I’d rather not get superglued to anything,” he finally says. Oh, thank fuck. “Pretty sure that’d make my periodical interrogations a lot harder to accomplish. Looks like you’re right for once, Mr. Egbert.”</p><p>And- apparently that’s it, because Dirk is slipping past him, into the living room. John notices that he takes care not to actually touch him in the whole process, and then tries not to feel weird about it. He shouldn’t be noticing things like that. Before, they’d only touch for- reasons. Fighting reasons, and other, not-fighting reasons, that he’s not going to think about right now.</p><p>Or ever, because that’s off-limits.</p><p>It’s just a lot, having Dirk here, in his personal space. It’s too close to the dumb ideal he’d imagined, still pleasure-drunk when he’d blurted out the offer to come with him months ago. He clears his throat to get rid of the knot threatening to rise in it- he doesn’t need to get choked up over this.</p><p>“Right, well. Uh. How are those, anyway? And also make yourself at home, and if you want water or anything…?” he adds, tacking that on to the end. He has to be a good host, no matter how weird it is to be the one hosting.</p><p>(And if part of him is doing this spitefully, to show Dirk that hey, John didn’t do this all as a trick, that he can be nice and good and fine and polite, that’s his own not-sexy little secret. Besides, his dad raised him right.)</p><p>“Water would be nice, thank you,” Dirk says, neutrally. Politely. He’s looking around, and John determinedly doesn’t feel any kind of way about that. He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge- and then another for himself, on second thought. An infuser one, because he thinks lemon water is somehow exactly what he needs for this situation. Extra hydration.</p><p>Dirk’s already sitting by the time John makes his way over to the living room, and he slides the orange bottle- which he has not obtained specifically for this, it’s just a coincidence, he’s had it ages- over to him. Dirk has wedged himself into one arm of the couch, as far away as he can get from John. Which, whatever. That’s fine. John settles himself accordingly on the other side of the couch, because he’s not a freak. They’re just two guys who used to fuck and who are probably still enemies on some level since Dirk apparently hates him now, sitting three feet apart on a couch because their friend has forced them into this.</p><p>With their consent, he reminds himself. But doesn’t really help to know that Dirk agreed to it, because, well. Why?</p><p>And that is not a question John’s ever really been able to answer when it comes to Dirk Crocker.</p><p>“It’s been fine, by the way.” Dirk’s voice jolts him back to reality. Whoops. The cap of the water bottle squeaks as he unscrews it, deliberate. John is not watching his fingers and how careful they are. He’s not watching him lift it to his mouth, or the bob of his throat as he swallows. The quiet, satisfied sigh is nice, though. He’s done something right. “I think Vantas is growing on me.”</p><p>“Yeah,” John mutters. “I bet he is.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Nothing, just. That’s how he is,” he scrambles to explain. “Like. Karkat’s really loud, and kind of obnoxious, and a complete weirdo, but somehow it works for him. I’m surprised it worked on you, though.”</p><p>Dirk shrugs slightly. “Kanaya’s alright, but she doesn’t talk much if it isn’t to head off a fight. She’s made it clear that she’s there to babysit us, although I’m sure she has some other ulterior motives.”</p><p>“Well, yeah. Of course you are.” He barely manages not to roll his eyes. Dirk thinks everyone has ulterior motives. “I mean. What kind of sinister plans could she have?”</p><p>“...You think they’re sinister?” Dirk asks. He doesn’t sound concerned, so it’s fifty-fifty as to whether he’s serious or whether he’s fucking with him. “Because my educated guess would have been that Lalonde is curious about me and having her report back.”</p><p>John has to admit that’s not too bad a guess.</p><p>“She’s scary when she wants to be,” he says with a shrug. “I’m not there, I don’t know how she’s acting around you. But meddling sounds like her. Karkat used to call her the- village ashen two-wheeled device or something, whatever that means. Uh, not to imply that there’s anything going on, there. Just that she meddles and it seems like something she would do on her own anyway.”</p><p>“Thank you for your insight, then, Mr. Egbert,” Dirk says, still stiff and formal. That- really doesn’t reassure him, and he immediately wants to ask if there is something going on there. But that’s not his business, and actually? He doesn’t care. Nope. Dirk’s not being tortured or whatever, because they’re not horrible people, and Dirk is just going to have to deal with that.</p><p>(And apologize, that would be nice, but this is Dirk Crocker. John isn’t exactly holding out hope for an apology, even if he’d dropped the last name.)</p><p>“Right,” John says, decisively. “I’ve got like, a decent movie lined up- I used to love it when I was a kid, and sure, it’s not that good now, but I figured it was probably a good idea to start with a classic, y’know?”</p><p>“Start with,” Dirk echoes, for no real reason. “Well, by all means. I’ve only been able to watch what Roxy’s brought to show me, so far. And her taste is...eclectic.”<br/>
John is one hundred percent sure this means she’s just subjected Dirk to all the Trolls movies before they turned into propaganda, and a bunch of old Disney ones. Not because she loves them (although he’s pretty sure she’s got her favorites), but probably because she just thinks it’s kind of funny to make Dirk watch them. John definitely thinks it is.</p><p>“What’s she been putting on for you?”</p><p>“We’ve watched some things that I know already. Wreck It Ralph- the second one. The first was surprisingly different, though. A lot of Disney’s new stuff, which I’ve seen.”</p><p>There’s something in the clipped tones of his voice on that, which tells John to maybe not ask about it. So he doesn’t. “Lots of like, documentaries. She’s not exactly subtle, putting on Blue Planet. I think that was one of her mother’s picks, though. Still, it’s the gentlest form of re-education I’ve ever seen, and I like the narrator’s voice well enough, so I can’t complain.”</p><p>“It’s just entertainment, not re-education,” John says, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes.</p><p>“The Entertainment?” Dirk asks. He says it like it’s a joke that John’s supposed to get, some kind of edgy, dark thing, probably, because he can just hear the capitalization. Gross.</p><p>“Sure,” he answers, vaguely. Dirk huffs out a quiet breath. Foiled, huh. John’s okay with that, too, even if it’s not really as satisfying, anymore.</p><p>“Just put your movie on.”</p><p>“I’m not doing it because you told me to,” John says. Right as he puts the movie on, and checks that the volume’s at a decent level. “Anyway, shhh! It’s starting.”</p><p>“I’m not being quiet just because you told me to,” Dirk says, because he always has to get the last word in and make fun of John while he’s at it. It still feels- empty, as a gesture, and John doesn’t like that.</p><p>But, at least he can focus on Con Air as a distraction, right?</p><p>Well. He’d hoped so. But apparently, not being exposed to a whole lot of media like this has not stopped Dirk from having opinions, and plenty of them. And apparently, his apathy towards John isn’t going to stop him from asking every single one of them.</p><p>It’s not pathetic if John answers, right? Because he’s still definitely impatient about it, and it does get annoying (and Dirk knows exactly how to annoy him, but the minute he picks up that John is kind of annoyed, he’s just going to go in on it, so John has to fight to keep his tone even, and this- this is closer, so much closer to what they were and what they had before, and he feels the ache of it deep in his chest).</p><p>“Okay, for the fifth time,” John says, exasperated, when they’re nearly through the movie. “There’s nothing wrong with his face. This is just what he looks like, and he didn’t like, get a new one- that’s a whole other movie.”</p><p>Dirk looks sickly fascinated by that. “What the fuck, bro. Why did you like this, again? Because I cannot pick out a single redeeming quality to justify wasting time on this.”</p><p>“Dirk, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I was watching it for fun. I literally did not ever think I needed to justify wasting time on the movie. Mostly because it wasn’t actually a waste of time,” he says.</p><p>“It was, because you could’ve been doing something else,” Dirk points out. He sounds like he’s explaining basic math to a toddler, and John doesn’t really like that.</p><p>“Like what? I was a kid, I’d finished all my homework or whatever, and my dad let me.”</p><p>There’s a moment of quiet, like there always is when Dirk is thinking particularly hard about what he wants to say. “You never spoke much about your childhood. Or at all, if I remember right,” he adds, but it’s pretty clearly just Dirk trying to be polite, because as far as John knows, he’s not actually capable of remembering wrong. “Not to say that we ever had the opportunity to talk about such things, of course. But did he really just let you watch this shit?”</p><p>John definitely doesn’t think about what they did instead of talking, that’s for sure. Because they did plenty of talking too, just- talking shit.</p><p>“I told you! He let me if I’d finished my homework, or if it was a weekend and I’d done all the chores and stuff around the house that I’d meant to,” John explains instead. “I don’t think it’s that weird now, it makes sense and all, but when I was younger I would get so annoyed that I had to do all that boring stuff first.”</p><p>“Huh.” Dirk looks absolutely fascinated by this. “You grew up in Washington, right?”</p><p>“How-,” he pauses. Dumb question; John literally has a Wikipedia page and there’s not much of it that’s fake, including the tiny little section on his early childhood. And that’s assuming that Dirk didn’t have like, a whole dossier or something on him. Which John knows he did- he got slapped in the face with it once. There’d been a lot of pages in there. “Never mind. But, yeah. It was nice. Quiet.”</p><p>“I did, too,” Dirk offers. “I think our experiences were very different, though. It rained a lot, and ho- the mansion, it was relatively secluded at the time. Things have grown around it for Mother’s convenience, of course, but it’s hardly suburbia.”</p><p>The polite thing to do would be to not mention that slip, but John keeps thinking about it. Dirk has a specific way of talking, and he doesn’t make mistakes usually, and it shouldn’t make something ache in John’s chest to hear him almost describe the Crocker mansion as home.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, rub all your rich kid upbringing in,” he says, keeping his voice light. He’s good at that, joking, lightening the mood. Dirk’s never been that susceptible to it, but hey. He can try. “I had a totally normal childhood, I don’t really know what else to tell you. The whole, white picket fence deal, nice house, my dad was in real estate. We were comfortable. Even if he had a lot of weird stuff around. Harlequins.” Even now, John shivers a little. They were creepy, okay? Even if he’s maybe more nostalgic about them than he’d like to admit; he hasn’t been back to his own house in ages, it’s not safe, but his dad’s favorite of the weird jester figurines is definitely in his living room.</p><p>“Clowns?” Dirk asks, and wow, it looks like he can sound disgusted by more than just John’s name. Or Rose’s, he guesses.</p><p>“Harlequins,” John corrects firmly. “He liked jokes and all that stuff a lot, and he was pretty into vintage stuff. Well, maybe it wasn’t vintage when he was growing up, but it was by the time he like, had his own house to decorate with it. He even had a copy of that old book, the huge one? Sassacre’s, I think?”</p><p>“That’s a hell of a coincidence.” Dirk looks surprised by that, but not unpleasantly. So that’s good, maybe? “I don’t know if you’ll like it, necessarily. But it’s interesting. Sassacre’s- technically, my father. Of sorts.”</p><p>If John had a drink he’d be spitting it out.<br/>
“Dirk. How old are you? Because he’s been dead for like, at least sixty years now or something, it has to be.”</p><p>Dirk, of course, looks absolutely unbothered by John’s shock. Fine, maybe he wouldn’t be panicked by being functionally immortal or getting a bunch of really good plastic surgery or, like, clones or something, but still. John has had enough of Dirk-related surprises. At least big ones like that.</p><p>“Relax, Mr. Egbert,” he says, heavy on the sarcasm. “I just meant that Mother married him. He died long before she even really thought about making children.”</p><p>“Mr. Egbert was my father,” John blurts out, for no goddamn reason he can really think of. He’s not sure how to digest this.</p><p>“I think that’s how last names work,” Dirk tells him. Bastard. John can’t tell if he’s finding this funny or if he’s just confused.</p><p>“No, I know- ugh,” he gives up. “Quit that and explain to me how you’re related to that guy? He looks like the dude who plays Pierce’s dad in Community and I’m not sure I see a resemblance other than snotty and rich.” There’s a tiny smirk on Dirk’s face; he’s definitely finding this funny. Well, that’s better than him hating John’s guts, at least.</p><p>(Wow. He’s really pathetic, huh.)</p><p>(No, he isn’t. John’s thought about this a lot, and he’s sticking with the simple fact that sure, he’s had his messy breakups, and he knows there’s people out there who hate him- like Betty, probably, but he’ll take that one as a point of pride- because he’s famous, and that’s kind of how being famous works. A bunch of strangers on the Internet trying to bully you over Twitter because they think your teeth are funny or whatever. But he hasn’t ever had someone he’d thought he’d won over just change their mind like that. And yes, okay, their whole thing had been hate but not this kind of hate.)</p><p><br/>
(If anyone had told him two months ago that he’d know there was a difference between platonic and romantic hate, he’d have asked them how concussed they were. This is definitely Karkat’s fault. And Rose’s. God.)</p><p><br/>
“I sold out much harder than he ever did,” Dirk suggests, with not a touch of bitterness in his voice like John might have expected. The way he says it is- some kind of a welcome distraction, but man. The last time they talked about this hadn’t been good, and John doesn’t want to risk it. Not when things are going kind of okay. “But I don’t think he provided much genetic material for us. Or any, come to think of it. None of us really look like him. Maybe we inherited some of his strength, if not the sense of humor; I’ve read the book, it’s-.” his face does something complicated for a second, “Fine.”</p><p><br/>
“...Are you just saying that because you don’t like comedy?” John asks. He’ll take whatever out he’s offered, pretty much, but it’s a valid question.<br/>
“You think I don’t like comedy? What, just because I think your jokes are bad?” Dirk asks, raising an eyebrow.</p><p><br/>
“Put that back down.” John points at him, but the eyebrow stays up. Because of course it does. “And I’m not saying you don’t like comedy because like, you don’t like my jokes. I already know you have bad taste. But Colonel Sassacre is basically the inventor of a bunch of gags and joke setups that are standard now, and he was funny. Objectively speaking.”</p><p><br/>
“I said he was fine, didn’t I?” Dirk says, waspish. “Honestly, Mr. Egbert, you’re reading too much into it.”</p><p><br/>
“Am I?” John pushes. “I borrow plenty from him too, and- okay, I guess I might want to reconsider that because he was fraternizing with the enemy something serious, but still.”<br/>
“I’d say no worse than you are, but at least you considered us enemies,” he says. Again, cool as anything, like this isn’t the most painfully awkward thing to talk about. God, it’s going to suck so much if John’s the only one still affected, or remotely bothered. He doesn’t think so, not based on Dirk’s weird formality, which wasn’t even like this when they were enemies, but. Dirk is Dirk. Impossible to handle at best. “What are you looking for me to say? That I don’t have a sense of humor? Because I do, it’s simply not my fault you don’t get it.”</p><p><br/>
“I wasn’t going to say that,” John says, and because he can’t really give up the chance, he makes sure his tone is definitely conveying that he is saying that. It gets him a brief, annoyed look. He’ll take it, even if it still doesn’t feel quite the same.</p><p><br/>
Especially because Dirk responds quickly, muttering, “Apologies for not enjoying tasteless slapstick and pratfalls, then.”</p><p><br/>
“….So you don’t like his jokes?” John hazards. He’s greeted with nothing but silence this time, and the increasingly tense set of Dirk’s shoulders. “C’mon, it’s fine if you don’t.”</p><p><br/>
“Most people do,” Dirk allows, reluctant. “And I probably would’ve liked him, had I ever gotten the chance to meet him.”</p><p><br/>
Privately, John doesn’t agree with that- Sassacre went and married a whole fish Hitler, and even without knowing that, the guy’s personal life is just one weird story after another. There’s way too many anecdotes about meteors, the universe was probably trying to kill him. And with how happy he seemed, all the time? That doesn’t jive with what John knows about Dirk, not one bit.</p><p><br/>
Okay, maybe he shouldn’t be using the metric of what he knows about Dirk Crocker here, because that amounts to jack diddly squat.</p><p>“So when he does dumb shit on stage it’s fine?” John asks pointedly.</p><p>“You’re like a dog with a bone sometimes, aren’t you, Mr. Egbert?” Now that’s a deflection, and somehow it actually feels more comfortable. “Should I get a bone for you, throw it, tell you that you’re a good boy?” Dirk’s voice drops slightly on those last two words, and there’s a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, and the room is suddenly too hot, it’s not just him.</p><p>And just as John’s trying to get his brain to behave and come up with a response, Dirk is talking again, and all the intent in his voice is gone.</p><p>“Right,” he says instead, awkward. “We’d better get back to the movie, Mr. Egbert, loath as I am to give it any more of my attention.”</p><p>John looks at the screen. They’ve been talking a little bit longer than he’d expected.</p><p>“You want to pay attention to the credits?” he asks, partially just to tease. Partially because he’s still reeling, and Dirk is so- hot and cold sometimes, he knew that, but. Ugh. No, he can’t go accusing the guy of mixed messages. It was probably just force of habit or something, he was very clear about how much he didn’t want to do anything with John ever again.</p><p>(But what, Sollux is somehow fair fucking game? Some bitter, angry part of him snorts in contempt, and he tries to keep a lid on that.)</p><p>(Things are fine as they are.)</p><p>(It isn’t worse, that Dirk did that out of habit. He corrected himself before John could even respond, and it’s going to be weird only if he makes it weird. Dirk hasn’t given him an out so much as flung himself through it and then dragged John forcibly away from the conversation. Which, whatever. He’s grateful. Just like he should be.)</p><p>Dirk’s eyes flick to the scrolling words, and he answers decisively. “No. I’ve had enough. I can’t believe you like him so much, though. Your homoerotic longing for Nicolas Cage is one of the stranger things about you.”</p><p>“Hey. It’s not just him, I like McConaughey too,” John protests. For a solid second, he really does think that they’re going to stay and talk about it, but Dirk’s standing up soon after and stretching out. John determinedly doesn’t look at the strip of skin that’s revealed as his shirt rides up. He’s seen way more of Dirk’s skin.</p><p>“Well, that might be marginally more reasonable,” he allows. God, he’s already heading for the door. Maybe this hadn’t actually gone as well as John had been thinking- although, seriously, if neither of them were shouting or being heartbroken, it probably was going to be a win anyway.</p><p>John has to hustle to stand and get to the door before him, and he opens it up and everything.</p><p>“Gee, thanks. I definitely care about what you think about my taste in men,” John says, with absolutely zero input from his brain to his mouth. Dirk looks at him for a long moment.</p><p>“Good thing I don’t think about it that often. I’ll see you next time,” Dirk says casually on his way out. The first part of that- doesn’t hurt, exactly; it’s a very Dirk response, after all. But the second? He’s not even looking at John, as he bends slightly to get his shoes on, but John freezes anyway.<br/>
Next time. Next time? There’s going to be a next time?</p><p>“Yes, Mr. Egbert, next time.” Oh, man. Apparently he really just blurted that one out. “I’m assuming that because we haven’t killed each other this time, Roxy’s going to wrangle us both into it again. Want to take a bet on what excuse she’ll use next time to get us alone?”</p><p>“...It sounds like you’re planning to get back at her on this,” John says, slowly. Because the glint in his eye? Yeah, John knows what that is. But this is the first time it’s been directed at him, including him in whatever conspiracy. And honestly, it’s probably also going to be the first time that the plan itself isn’t just to be evil or a huge pain in John’s ass. Or both. And kind of literally on the last one.</p><p>“I’m just saying that it would be funny if she continued to think we hated doing this,” he says, shrugging. “In the grand tradition of upping a prankster’s gambit, it’s hardly anything, but even a lick of the ice cream of revenge would be good, right about now. And it’s not like she doesn’t have, ugh. Good intentions.” Dirk grimaces once, brief. He’s made it very clear what he thinks about good intentions, and the reminder sits sour in John’s stomach.</p><p>He tries to remind himself that this is Dirk, and since when does he ever do anything he doesn't actually want to do, but the reminder doesn't really work this time around. No, it actually just makes things worse, because him being forced is one thing, but if he's just choosing to be here and is being really fucking awkward about it, then what does that even mean? Ugh. He's going to give himself an aneurysm trying to figure this out, and no, John doesn't have time for that today. Instead, he can focus on the facts: they talked, and there was no fighting, and Dirk was actually kind of keeping his mean streak to a minimum (although Con Air did redirect a lot of it, so maybe that's a good strategy for the future?).</p><p>So. They talked. They sat in the same room. They didn’t tear each other’s throats out. This is progress, in some way, John knows it is, although now it's starting to feel an awful lot like he's thinking in useless fucking circles.</p><p><br/>
Dirk even waves once before he goes, after thanking John for his time politely, because old habits die hard and John isn’t the only one who knows how the host/guest deal works. That’s good, too. They can be civil. They can interact without John replaying those two awful, awful conversations in his head the whole time, and that has to be better.</p><p>It just….doesn’t feel like it.</p><p>But- bad movies, huh.</p><p>He closes the door behind Dirk, making sure it's locked properly, and pulls out his phone. Maybe this is really fucking petty, or really fucking stupid, but if there's something that they can talk about and have it stay light, have it stay at least <em>sort of</em> normal- for whatever weird version of normal they had between them? He's going for it. And okay, maybe he still thinks Dirk should apologize (and he knows he should, too, but he doesn't even know how to say it without it feeling wrong and fake, the words sticking in his throat like the lie they are), so if the bad movies really make him suffer that much? John's going to lean into it.</p><p>Ha, great. Karkat's finally unblocked him from earlier. He taps out a quick message, and waits.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p class="block">--- ectoBiologist [EB] has started pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG]! ---<br/>
<span class="john">EB: hey, karkat?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: OH, FUCK NO.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: what?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i haven’t even said anything!</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: AND YOU’RE NOT GOING TO GET THE FUCKING CHANCE TO.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: c’mon. you don’t even know what it’s about! i could have like, the best conversational idea ever going on, you know. you could be missing out on SO much.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: TRUST ME, EGBERT, I FUCKING KNOW I’M NOT MISSING OUT ON ANY OF THE INANE GODDAMN BULLSHIT THAT YOU SPEW OUT OF THE GAPING HOLE YOU CALL A MOUTH ON A REGULAR FUCKING BASIS.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: ouch.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: what if it’s….romance related?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: isn’t that your whole thing?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT AM I, SOME FUCKING SECONDARY CHARACTER OUT HERE SOLELY TO BE THE FUCKING WINGMAN, SOME SOUNDING BOARD FOR YOUR ROMANTIC FUCKING INEPTITUDE?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: um, no.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: you’re just the only person i know who likes that kind of thing.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: so i was wondering if you had any romcoms you might want to recommend watching?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: OH.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WELL.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCKING FINALLY.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YOU’VE DEVELOPED SOME GODDAMN *TASTE.*</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: uh, sure!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: just give me your favorites. i know you like some of the alternian ones too? or like, the troll ones with really fucking long titles.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: TROLL LOVE, ACTUALLY IS A FUCKING MASTERPIECE AND I STAND BY IT. BUT SOME HUMAN ONES ARE FUCKING TOLERABLE, I GUESS.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: LIKE THAT ONE WHERE THEY’RE A PALE/ASHEN/FLUSHED FUCKING VACILLATING MESS, BUT THE GODDAMN PITY AND GOODWILL PRESENT IS ALMOST FUCKING NAUSEATING.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THE METAPHORICAL DETAILS OF HAVING A WEAK [PUMPBISCUIT COMBINED WITH THE ACTUAL FUCKING HEARTBREAK IS IMMACULATE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I DON’T NORMALLY GO IN FOR SHIT WITH ALL THAT MUCH FUCKING SINGING, AND IT’S COMPLETELY GODDAMN UNREALISTIC, BUT SURE, THEY CAN CARRY A FUCKING TUNE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i don’t know what movie this is.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: OF FUCKING COURSE YOU DON’T, YOU UNCULTURED SWINE. DON’T WORRY. I’LL MAKE SURE YOU HAVE A WHOLE GODDAMN LIST.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: ACTUALLY, WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS FOR? NORMALLY YOU’D BE FUCKING DELIGHTED TO REMAIN AN UNCULTURED SWINE AND RUB ALL OUR POOR LOOKSTUBS IN THE FACT LIKE YOU’RE PROUD OF IT OR SOME SHIT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: it’s for reasons!</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WOW.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: REASONS.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: JOHN EGBERT, EVERYONE. FUCKING MASTER OF DETAILS.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: haha i do try my best.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: so, the list?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I’M FUCKING WRITING IT DOWN BUT IF YOU HAVE A SPECIFIC GOAL IN MIND, YOU SHOULD PROBABLY BLABBER IT OUT NOW BECAUSE GOD KNOWS I’M NOT GOING TO LISTEN TO YOU FOR FUCKING EVER.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: a...goal?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: jeez, what is it with people and thinking i have ulterior motives??</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: DID I NOT FUCKING SAY ALREADY THAT IT’S WEIRD AS SHIT YOU’RE ASKING ME ABOUT ROMCOMS? BECAUSE THAT’S MORE THAN ENOUGH FOR ANYONE WITH EVEN THE MOST SOPOR-ROTTED THINKPAN TO GET SUSPICIOUS.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: okay, fair.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: but no goals here, really.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: also, what would ulterior motives have to do with your list of dumb movies?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FIRST OF FUCKING ALL, EGBERT, THEY’RE NOT DUMB. YOUR SHITTY COMEDY MOVIES ARE DUMB. WILL FERRELL MOVIES ARE FUCKING STUPID. I DIDN’T THINK THERE COULD BE A SINGLE SPECIES MORE PAN-DEAD THAN SOME IDIOTS I KNOW, BUT THEN WE CAME HERE, AND FUCKING *HUMANS* TURNED OUT TO BE SO MUCH GODDAMN WORSE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SECOND, IF YOU WANT FUCKING ROMANTIC ADVICE YOU COULD JUST *ASK* ME.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: what?? i don’t want romantic advice, man.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: and even if i did, all your advice would be based on the movies! so why wouldn’t i just watch them and save myself a burst eardrum?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: LISTEN, FUCKWAD. MY ROMANTIC ADVICE IS SO FUCKING SOUGHT AFTER, YOU HAVE NO IDEA. ALL THE TIMES I OFFERED IT TO YOU, YOU FUCKING SQUANDERED IT, SO NO, I’M NOT FEELING GODDAMN GENEROUS ENOUGH TO OFFER, BUT EVEN IF I WAS, IT WOULD BE SO MUCH FUCKING BETTER THAN WHATEVER BULLSHIT PLAN YOU DECIDED TO RE-ENACT FROM THE MOVIES. WITH YOUR FUCKING LUCK, YOU’D PULL WHATEVER THE FUCK HUMAN ADAM SANDLER WAS TRYING TO IN THAT ONE MOVIE HE DID WITH JENNIFER ANISTON.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: wait, did you just say HUMAN adam sandler?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: karkat, is there a troll adam sandler?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i have to know.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: STOP FUCKING DEFLECTING.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: you can’t drop something like that on me and not expect me to deflect!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: that’s like, the biggest distraction you actually could have provided, okay?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: so answer my question, already.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YES.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: holy shit.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THERE’S A TROLL WILL SMITH, TOO. SO YOU KNOW.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: how about nic cage?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: …</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NO.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: are you lying to me?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: you can’t lie to me about nic cage, karkat.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: like, sure, i wouldn’t buy a troll mcconaughey, but you can’t tell me that a troll nic cage doesn’t exist.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCK YOU.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: HOW THE FUCK DO YOU EVEN KNOW THIS SHIT? YOU LITERALLY HAD NO FUCKING INTEREST OR CLUE ABOUT ALTERNIA BEFORE YOU FUCKING PRIED THAT SHIT OUT OF MY MOUTH LIKE YOU’RE ONE OF THOSE MASOCHISTIC FREAKS WHO CLEAN BITENUBS FOR A LIVING.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: oh my god.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: for the last time, dentists aren’t masochistic freaks!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: okay, maybe some dentists might be masochists, but don’t call them freaks, that’s rude. it has nothing to do with their job.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHOEVER WANTS TO SHOVE THEIR WHOLE FUCKING PRONG INTO SOMEONE’S GAPER DESERVES TO BE CALLED A GODDAMN FREAK FOR IT. NO ONE WANTS TO LOSE A TOUCHSTUB.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: karkat? please don't say that again.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT. DON’T FUCKING TRY TO TALK ME OUT OF THIS WITH YOUR BULLSHIT, EGBERT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i was just going to say that humans don’t have sharp teeth. or like, bite impulses that are that strong.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: so like, i don’t really think dentists generally feel like they’re in that much danger.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: but it’s okay if you’re scared of them! it’s totally normal and i'm definitely not going to put this in a bit about my very scary troll friend who is weirded out by dentists.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NO.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I REFUSE TO BE A TWO-BOONIE SIDESHOW IN YOUR SHITTY COMEDIC ROUTINE FOR A BUNCH OF DRUNK ASSHOLES IN A CLUB.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: what??</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: it’s been AGES since i had a gig that small, first of all. i like, have whole auditoriums now!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: second of all, why not?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: it’s funny, this kind of cute culture clash is always hilarious.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I DON’T FUCKING WANT TO BECAUSE I DON’T FUCKING WANT TO. END OF STORY.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: alright, alright, jeez.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: what if i pretended someone else said it?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: or, ugh. made it about vampires instead.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: oh, that could be good for a halloween thing.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: REAL FUCKING OPTIMISTIC THAT YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE IT TO OCTOBER, DOUCHEBAG.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: because of rose’s plan?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: BECAUSE IF LALONDE’S FUCKING INSANE IDEA DOESN’T KILL YOU, THEN I FUCKING WILL AFTER IT’S OVER. GOD FUCKING KNOWS YOU’VE BEEN TEMPTING ME SINCE WE FIRST MET.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: haha, kinky.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NO, FUCK YOU. TAKE THAT BACK, I WOULDN’T CHOKE YOU OUT *KINKILY* IF YOU WERE THE LAST FUCKING PERSON ON THE PLANET. NO, IN THE FUCKING UNIVERSE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: AND EVEN IF I WANTED TO- AND THAT IS A BIG FUCKING IF, FOR IT TO BE NON-PLATONIC, BUT WE’RE GOING TO FUCKING VENTURE OUT INTO THE GODDAMN HYPOTHETICAL FOR THIS- YOU LITERALLY JUST GOT OUT OF A MESSY FUCKING BREAKUP.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: AND YOU’RE A DUMBASS WHO DIDN’T FUCKING KNOW THAT IT *WAS* ONE UNTIL AFTER THE FUCKING FACT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I HAVE STANDARDS. IF YOU WANT TO GET ON THIS FUCKING VANTAS TRAIN, YOU NEED THIS MANY BRAIN CELLS. AND YOU DO NOT FUCKING MEET THAT, NOT WITH YOUR THINKPAN SO ADDLED AND FULL OF NOTHING BUT SHITTY JOKES.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i feel like you’re protesting too much, now. i thought you said you were over the crush thing.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: OH MY GOD.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCK YOU AND YOUR MOVIE LIST.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: no, wait!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: fine, i take it back.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: HM.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: AND YOU’LL TELL ME WHAT THEY’RE FOR.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i thought you said you weren’t my romantic sounding board or whatever?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I’M NOT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WAIT, ARE THESE *DATE* MOVIES?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: no!!!!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i just think that your taste is so bad that he’s going to hate them no matter what, so there.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: HE?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YOU HAVE GOT TO BE SHITTING ME.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: what??</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: there’s plenty of he’s around, and i'm not getting into this with you.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: JUST TELL ME YOU’RE NOT TRYING TO GET BACK INTO THE BLACK WITH HIM.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i'm not. honest.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: he just hated the nic cage movie and now i'm feeling spiteful.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: which, by the way, sucks ass. feeling spiteful, that is, not the movie.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: but at the same time, if he thinks good cinema is suffering, it’s like. why not really make him suffer, you know?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NO. I DON’T FUCKING KNOW.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: BECAUSE YOU ARE LITERALLY THE ONLY ASSWIPE I’VE MET WHO THINKS CON FUCKING AIR IS PEAK CINEMA.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NOT EVEN TOTALLY IRONICALLY. IT’S NOT ALL NOSTALGIA NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU SAY IT IS, EGBERT, YOU’RE NOT FUCKING FOOLING ANYONE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YOU WATCH THAT FUCKING MOVIE LIKE YOU’RE SALIVATING OVER A FRESHLY BAKED PIE SITTING IN SOME SUBURBAN HUMAN LUSUS’S WINDOWSILL OR SOME SHIT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i do not!</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YOU FUCKING DO.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: AND FOR THE RECORD, DOUCHENOZZLE. MY TASTE IN FILMS IS FUCKING *IMPECCABLE*.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I’LL SEND YOU THE GODDAMN LIST TOMORROW AND THEN WE’LL SEE WHAT IS FUCKING WHAT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: and if he hates them?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THEN HE’LL SAY SO TO MY FUCKING FACE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: uh.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: okay.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: are you sure you’re not the one going for his dark quadrant?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: PITCH.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: AND NO, I’M FUCKING NOT.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: BECAUSE I HAVE COMMON FUCKING SENSE.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: BESIDES, HE’S NOT HORRIBLE TO TALK TO SOME OF THE TIME.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: wow, was that a compliment?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: it took you ages to say that about me!</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THAT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE FUCKING INSUFFERABLE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: so is he!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: he is actually worse.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: are you fucking with me?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i think you’re fucking with me.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCKING FINALLY, HE CATCHES ON.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: rude!!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: &gt;:B</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: GOD, I HATE YOUR STUPID FUCKING EMOJI FACE. JUST TALK LIKE A REGULAR GODDAMN PERSON.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: ugh, fine.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: (:B)</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCKSAKE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: actually, though. about what you said and rose’s whole plan.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT ABOUT IT?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: you said i might not live to halloween or whatever- and sure, i think i will-, but has she set a date, then?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: for real, i mean.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: like obviously it was going to be as soon as possible, but she hadn’t really given a timeline or anything.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SHE STILL HASN’T, WHICH IS A FAT FUCKING LOT OF GOOD, BUT A WHOLE FUCKING LOT LIKE HER.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: BUT KANAYA SAYS SHE’S DEFINITELY STRIKING WHILE THE IRON IS HOT, OR WHATEVER. THEY’RE STILL WORKING ON ALL THE FUCKING INTEL THAT ASSHOLE HAS GIVEN US IN HIS SNARKY WAY.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHICH, FUCKING WHATEVER, AT LEAST WE’RE ACTUALLY GOING TO GET SHIT DONE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: yeah. she’s had me send out a bunch of messages too, especially when i did that quick tour earlier.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: there wasn’t anything concrete, but i get the feeling she’s making sure people know we’re going to make a move.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: had a couple of close calls, too!</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: nothing major, though, like. i'm just the funnyman, rose is the one who can’t go to a book signing anymore without a fancy crockercorp gun getting aimed her way.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH. I BET IT FUCKING SUCKS.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: for the record, it kind of does.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCK YOU. I WASN’T ACTUALLY BEING FUCKING SARCASTIC THAT TIME.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: LALONDE FUCKING OBVIOUSLY NEEDS TO GET OUT MORE THAN SHE DOES, BUT AT THE SAME GODDAMN TIME IT IS THE WORST FUCKING IDEA I’VE EVER HEARD.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i mean, she doesn’t exactly let roxy get out that much, either.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: not that i like, don’t think roxy hasn’t snuck out some times?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: but that’s kind of not the point.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: GOD, YEAH. THAT KID IS A SNEAKY FUCKING SHIT, IT’S IMPRESSIVE. GO FIGURE WHEN YOUR LUSUS IS NEARLY GODDAMN OMNISCIENT ABOUT SOME SHIT, YOU GET REALLY FUCKING GOOD AT AVOIDING HER NOTICE. IT WOULD BE FUCKING FUNNY IF WE DIDN’T ALL HAVE AT LEAST ONE ROXY-IS-GONE-INDUCED PANIC ATTACK UNDER OUR FUCKING BELTS.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: oh, man, yeah. that time she followed me to a show?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i thought rose was actually going to kill me, and i didn’t even know she’d been there. which is kind of weird to say since she was definitely old enough to be there, it’s not like much of my stuff is rated r, and her disguise was pretty good, but.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: well, it kinda makes more sense now as to why rose was like that, y’know?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, YEAH.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SHE HOVERED OVER ROXY LIKE SHE WAS A FUCKING WRIGGLER, MORE THAN CRABDAD EVER DID WITH ME, AND BELIEVE ME, I WAS AT RISK OF CULLING ON A DAILY FUCKING BASIS IF I SO MUCH AS TRIPPED AND FUCKING FELL IN PUBLIC.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I GUESS AT LEAST HE NEVER TOLD ME NOT TO FOLLOW MY FUCKING DREAMS OR WHATEVER, EVEN IF THEY WERE FUCKING NONSENSE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: sorry, crabdad?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: like. a talking crab?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: NO, WHAT THE FUCK, THAT WOULD BE SO FUCKING STUPID.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: HE DIDN’T TALK. THAT’S THE OTHER PART OF WHY HE DIDN’T FUCKING TELL ME NOT TO FOLLOW MY DREAMS, FUCKASS.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: oh. right.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i guess my dad was kind of the same way, although more, uh. verbal about it.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: more obnoxious, too? or like, that’s kind of what it was like to me when i was a kid. he used to leave all these notes telling me how proud of me he was and stuff.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WOW.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: THAT’S A FUCKING WEIRDASS THING TO DO. NOT TO CLAIM TO BE A FUCKING EXPERT ON RAISING HUMAN WRIGGLERS, BUT I LITERALLY HAVE NEVER FUCKING HEARD OF THAT IN MY LIFE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: yeah, i think it was more of a him thing than a parent thing.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: honestly, i used to think he was kind of overprotective, even after he died, and then i met rose.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH, THAT’S FUCKING FAIR. BUT IT’S NOT LIKE LALONDE TWO IS MY FUCKING GRUB, SO.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: yeah, i tried to talk to her about it at the time, and she got so touchy, it was insane. like i said, i kinda get why now, but back then it was really weird.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: anyway, not the point.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: the point is that do you think rose is still gonna go out anyway?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: MAYBE. I DON’T FUCKING KNOW WHAT GOES ON IN HER HEAD.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: SHE’S FUCKING SENDING *ME* OUT IN A WEEK, THOUGH. WHICH PROBABLY MEANS A DECENT AMOUNT, BUT I HAVE TO GO FUCKING TALK TO SOME CARAPACIANS, SO WISH ME FUCKING LUCK WITH THAT ONE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: haha, good luck.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i don’t get what your deal with them is, though.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I DON’T HAVE A FUCKING DEAL WITH THEM, OKAY? THEY’RE FINE, OR WHATEVER. BUT THE ONLY FUCKING TOLERABLE ONE IS THE MAYOR OF THAT SETTLEMENT LALONDE IS FUCKING FUNDING LIKE THE WORST-KEPT SECRET AROUND. IT IS A GODDAMN MIRACLE THAT NO SHITCLOWN HAS STUMBLED ON THE PLACE AND BOMBED THE SHIT OUT OF IT YET.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: we do try to make sure that doesn’t happen, man. like, to be fair, there has been a lot of work towards it not being bombed.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH, I FUCKING KNOW.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: IT JUST FEELS SHITTY TO GO OVER THERE AND TRY TO GET THEM TO FIGHT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: is that what she’s asking?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: OKAY, SHE HASN’T FUCKING SAID IT, BUT THE WHOLE FUCKING POINT OF THE VISIT IS RECRUITMENT AND YOU FUCKING KNOW IT YOURSELF. WHY ELSE WOULD SHE BE SENDING ME, SHITHEAD?</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: okay, okay. i just kinda thought that anyone who wanted to fight was, you know, already doing that.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YEAH, SO DID I, BUT I GUESS SHIT IS MORE FUCKING DIRE THAN I THOUGHT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: god, you’re such a pessimist.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: LISTEN, NOOKSTAIN. LALONDE IS THINKING THIS IS GOING TO BE ALL HER FUCKING CHIPS IN ONE BASKET OR WHATEVER YOUR HUMAN FUCKING SAYING IS, AND THAT’S WELL AND GOOD, BUT THE FACT IS THAT WE PROBABLY ARE GOING TO NEED A WHOLE FUCKING LOT MORE THAN SHE THINKS TO GET THIS SHIT DONE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: you think? i always figured our numbers are pretty good, especially for the kind of plan where we uh. cut the legs off the snake and then do the head at the same time.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT THE FUCK? SNAKES DON’T HAVE FUCKING LEGS, YOU COLOSSAL FUCKING MORON.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i know that! but you know what i meant, so quit being so picky about it.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: and listen! the whole point is that we should worry about all that stuff that comes after, after. we’ll get everyone we need and if we don’t, i am pretty sure we’ll be able to swing something so we do.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: YOUR FUCKING OPTIMISM IS ACTUALLY DISGUSTING.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: AND WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN WE’LL WORRY ABOUT THE STUFF THAT COMES AFTER, AFTER?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I KNEW YOU WERE FUCKING INEPT AS SHIT, EGBERT, BUT THE *POINT* IS THAT YOU NEED TO HAVE A GOOD FUCKING PLAN IN PLACE FOR AFTER *BEFORE* YOU GO AROUND FOMENTING FUCKING REVOLUTION. YOU GOTTA GET THIS SHIT HAMMERED OUT, BECAUSE WE’RE NOT HERE TO FUCKING MARTYR OURSELVES, AND NO ONE WANTS TO GET STUCK WITH THEIR BULGE AND BARE ASS OUT JUST BECAUSE THEY DIDN’T FUCKING THINK THEY’D WIN. IDIOT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: well, we learned to like, hope for the best and plan for the worst. except planning for the worst here mostly means we just die and don’t need to worry about anything?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i didn’t come up with it!</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCKSAKE. *COLLECTIVE* YOU, AS IN YOU FUCKING HUMANS.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: oh.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: i don’t know.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: evolution?</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: FUCKING FORGET IT.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: maybe, maybe not.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: :B</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: but i'll let you know if rose says anything important while you’re gone.</span><br/>
<span class="karkat">CG: I’D FIND OUT ANYWAY, YOU FUCKING PAN-ADDLED PISSFACE.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: yes, from me. i'll text you.</span><br/>
<span class="john">EB: bye!</span><br/>
<span class="pesterlog">--- ectoBiologist [EB] has ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG]! ---</span></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dirk has barely let himself back into his room after yet another exhausting meeting with Lalonde, Egbert, and Vantas, when he hears a knock at the door. Though this time he can at least say that it isn’t exhausting due to the people, but to the sheer amount of arguing. It’s like the deep ache after a good exercise, the hurt of a wound healing. He doesn’t mind it.</p><p>He did, however, think that he wouldn’t be seeing anyone else today, and he eyes the door with extreme prejudice. He doubts that it’s someone who wishes him ill; as far as he can tell, his seclusion and likely Lalonde’s desire to keep his presence here as quiet as possible have lowered that number significantly, more so than he had expected.</p><p>And unfortunately, of those who don’t actively wish him dead, he’d only slam the door in the face of one.</p><p>Dirk sighs, turns, and reopens the door. Even here, there is always <em>something</em><span> that requires his attention, but he supposes this is better than being bored all the time.</span></p><p>“Yes?” he asks, short, before he notices who’s there. “Oh. Hey, Roxy. Sorry. I didn’t know it was you.”</p><p>
  <span>She quirks an eyebrow up at him. “Obviously! You’d have been </span>
  <em>way</em>
  <span> happier to see me otherwise, right Dirky?”</span>
</p><p>“Right,” he says, deliberately pausing for a moment too long to mess with her. It works, predictably, and she levels a devastating pout his way.</p><p>“Diiiiiirk.”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“<span>You’re a dick. I was </span><em>gonna</em><span> bring you some oranges from the hothouse, the tree’s bloomin’ thanks to Kan keepin’ an eye on it, and this is like, the first fruit it’s had in ages. Don’t tell mom, but that thing was deffo gonna fuckin’ perish if she’d been the one to look after it for much longer,” Roxy says, conspiratorial. As if she hadn’t just threatened him. Dirk is...cautiously intrigued by the prospect of fresh fruit. </span></p><p>He’s had it before, of course, and he’s enjoyed the flavor, but-</p><p>
  <span>Historically, at least, he’s aware that the orange fruit is not meant to taste like orange soda. Of course, it would have been treason to mention any kind of desire for fruit </span>
  <em>not</em>
  <span> produced by the Company and bred and edited specifically for higher sugar content, the balance of esters and other additives adjusted carefully. But he’s betrayed Mother far more now than by wanting a simple orange, so he extends his hand.</span>
</p><p>“You’re the one trying to bribe me into being nice with fruit.”</p><p>“Had to think about that one for a sec, huh,” she teases. “But it’s good to know it works! Here ya go, c’mon, lemme see it.”</p><p>Roxy seems overly invested in this as she tosses him the orange, and Dirk pushes his thumb down into the top, feels the skin break under the pressure as he digs into the fruit. The skin is thicker than he’s used to, a pleasant surprise. The fruit itself is larger as well. Bit by bit, he starts easing it off- it doesn’t peel in a neat spiral, but he has to do it in bits and pieces, pith lodging itself under his nail.</p><p>“Why are you looking so closely? It’s an orange, I do know how to eat fruit,” he says, adding another piece of peel to the small pile on the table. “Don’t tell me you thought I’d bite into it, skin and all.”</p><p>“Weeeeeell. I just lost like twenty bucks to John,” Roxy says, petulant. “Can you like, just bite into one in front of him? Eat it like an apple? Pretty please?”</p><p>“It’ll deal him psychic damage in a way that I find entertaining,” Dirk tells her, and it isn’t even a lie. They’ve settled into an equilibrium of some kind, between movies and small-talk that Dirk doesn’t quite hate, and now that he knows the correct distance to keep between them, it’s easy to maintain it. It is. “I’ll make sure to get half the fruit in one bite, if not all, for maximum citrus hellscape horror.”</p><p>The scent lingers in the air, sharp but not as sweet. When he lifts his thumb up to lick the juice off, it explodes in his mouth as a sour tang, but there’s nothing lurking under it, no sick saccharine or chemical underlay. He adores it, instantly.</p><p>It’s not- that bad. Being here. He has to admit that, even if it’s grudging. Even if he knows he’s being hidden like a particularly filthy secret. He understands the practicality of it, though, and he understands the importance of Lalonde framing his part in this as her idea, and as big a positive as she can.</p><p>Besides. He’s already interacting closely with enough people.</p><p>“That’s my boy,” Roxy cackles, breaking him out of that reverie. “Sooooo.”</p><p>“So?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. He does already know what she’s going to ask, but it’s more fun to prompt her.</p><p>This has been a common theme lately. Roxy coming to see him after each meeting and bothering him for the most miniscule details. It’s fortunate for her that he has a perfect recall, but he’s hardly the one taking minutes. Karkat Vantas has that dubious honor, though Dirk has yet to suggest that Roxy go bother him instead.</p><p>It wouldn’t do to be short with her, when he can answer her questions perfectly well. And he doesn’t mind it either, he reminds himself. It’s not just that she’s the only one here he wouldn’t describe his relationship with as ‘fraught at best’, or that he would have died for her in another world, just to the left of theirs. He doesn’t want to get fooled again, doesn’t want to trick himself into believing something as easy as this, but- she’s here, and when she talks about whatever she’s done that day, shows genuine interest in what <em>he’s</em> done (which he’d thought she already knew, but she doesn’t always), it’s hard not to.</p><p>What a fucking joke. But not an unfunny one.</p><p>“Oh my god. So! How was it?” She looks like she’s going to burst if he doesn’t give her the answer.</p><p>“Fine?” he hazards. Dirk takes a seat on the couch, and Roxy flops next to him. He relents. “Alright, fine. It wasn’t as efficient as I’d have liked, we can’t seem to agree on the most basic details. And before you ask, no, I’m not the one spurring arguments. Mr. Egbert thinks they ought to go after the White House, while your mother is strongly advocating a direct hit at ho- at the mansion,” he corrects himself, and the words taste like ash in his mouth. The bright orange isn’t enough to wash that away. “They’ve only just nailed down a timeline, but they can’t figure out <em>where</em>. It’s ridiculous.”</p><p>“Uh huh,” Roxy says. “And what d’you think?”</p><p>“There’s no point in this if M- if she’s not there,” he catches himself, just in time. The second mistake in less than a minute. He hates it. Roxy’s kind enough to not point his slip out, although he’s sure she caught it. It only endears her to him further, and that’s a dangerous thing too. “I’m not sure if Lalonde has the resources to do both, but it would be a good option, if we don’t know her location when the time comes. She’s being particularly difficult on that point.”</p><p>Roxy hums. “Prolly ‘cause she doesn’t know herself?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Roxy, that’s absurd. She’s in charge, she should know,” Dirk says, frowning now. This place runs on a logic that eludes him entirely- well, runs is a strong word, given what little he’s managed to glean so far. It seems that all the faces that were in the room for his sham trial have vanished, either avoiding him or returning to where they’d originally come from. He wonders if that’d been a show of force, or if those most likely to be sympathetic to him had come. Or, more practically, if only those who were already in the area showed up.</p><p>“’S not a big ol’ mega-corporation, Dirky,” Roxy says patiently. “Mom knows what goes on, yeah, but not like, every lil detail. She knows we’ve got plenty of folks around but if they can actually show up on time ‘n not get into trouble, or listen, or y’know, if she should even ask ‘em? That’s a whole other barrel of cats, el em ay oh.”</p><p>Dirk digests this for a moment. It seems dysfunctional, but it’s very like Lalonde. He’s still not sure if she’s just pretending to value the same thing that everyone else does or if she genuinely believes in it, but it’s a moot point when they have the same end goals. It’s afterwards that’ll be an issue, but <em>his</em> part in that is already sorted.</p><p>“As long as you don’t start lecturing me again about personal freedoms and how the individual is important, and human rights, I suppose I can accept that,” he answers. “Although I still think she should know how many people are on her side and willing to fight. That’s not an infringement on anyone’s rights, just so you know.”</p><p>“I do that once and you don’t let me live it down, huh,” she huffs. “But, like, okay. Say we’ve got, mmm, maybe fifty folks sayin’ they wanna help, right?”</p><p>“Right,” he parrots.</p><p>“But thing is, lots can happen between now ‘n then, like if they gotta go into hiding, or if Mom wants to have a backup in case it doesn’t work, or if they get killed, ‘cause there’s still plenty going on right now. So she can’t really <em>count</em> on all fifty showin’ up ‘til it’s way closer to the day.” Dirk hasn’t had anyone explain strategy to him <em>quite </em>like this before, and while he dislikes it solely on principle, he has to admit that Roxy is very good at it. She’d make a good leader- and not just for the reasons that Mother might have thought. This is all her.</p><p>“We’d simply have told them to show up or else, and they would have. But I suppose your way of doing things makes sense now. Anyway, why aren’t you in charge of more publicity shit?” he asks, blunt. Maybe more so than necessary; it’s becoming a bad habit, between her and Karkat. “Not to infringe on any rights-,” and he ignores the way she rolls her eyes here, “-but just from that, you’re quite good at it. And you seem to have a good relationship with the Carapacians. I never quite managed that. Although- and I know you’re going to want to say that this is due to my views and inherent biases, but trust me- the ones I worked most closely with weren’t the kind of people you’d want to get close to. Only one of them wasn’t a pain in the ass the deal with, and that was a solid half the time.”</p><p>“Maybe they just didn’t like you,” Roxy chirps, with a grin.</p><p>“I would be more surprised if they liked anyone,” he tells her. The grin slides off, and she shoves at his shoulder, companionable. “Fine, fine. But you still haven’t answered my question.”</p><p>“Just ‘cause I do well with ‘em doesn’t really mean Mom wants me putting myself out there like that,” Roxy shrugs. “’S not really a big deal.”</p><p>Dirk understands that logic perfectly well, so he shrugs. “That makes sense.”</p><p>“What?” Now she’s blinking at him, a furrow in her brow.</p><p>“What? It does. Mother did much the same with me, you know,” he says. He realizes by the shocked look on her face that this is in no way a reassuring thing for her. “Not- to say that Lalonde and Mother are the same, of course. She ran away with you for a reason. I’m just saying that the logic of, keeping a child inside so they’re not in danger from undesirable elements is understandable. Of course, she’s also letting you spend time with me, so maybe that’s a moot point, but I don’t think so. She already knows that I won’t hurt you.”</p><p>“Well, duh,” Roxy rolls her eyes. The expression takes up her whole face, and for an absurd moment, he’s reminded of John. “Obvs you won’t. We’re friends.”</p><p>“That, and the agreement we have would be null and void if I so much as looked at you the wrong way. She’d be using her needlekind to knit my guts into garters,” Dirk says. The deflection is automatic, but the flicker of hurt in Roxy’s eyes isn’t worth it. He sighs. “And also because we’re- friends.”</p><p>It coaxes a small smile out of her, at least. “Y’know, it’s weird? I didn’t think I’d, like. Like you.”</p><p>“No offense taken. I’m not very personable, I have to work harder at it,” he says. “I don’t have the same kind of charisma that you, or Dave, or- ugh, even Egbert- do.”</p><p>“Iunno, I wouldn’t say you crit failed on your charisma stat, babes, but you deffo did not roll a nat twenty like moi,” she says with a grin. “You’re a lil intense, a lil too serious, is all. And you know that’s not what I meant!”</p><p>“Okay, you thought I’d bite your face off,” he says, deadpan.</p><p>“Oh my god, no! I just meant that whenever you were like, on TV or whatever, or even when John was talkin’ ‘bout you, he’d be all, yeah, he’s so cold, but there’s stuff goin’ on under there. Or complainin’ about you tossing him out a window, I guess. Which- ha, you didn’t really do, right?”</p><p>“There was a tent underneath, he landed just fine. And if he can come in through the window, he can leave the same way,” Dirk shrugs. “I didn’t think we’d get along either. You and me, that is. Not Mr. Egbert and myself. That’s more of a work in progress.”</p><p>“Hey, at least there’s progress.” Roxy sounds terribly smug about that. Of course, she makes it explicit, by just adding on, “Thanks to lil ol’ me. Trust Momma Rox to know what’s what for her fave dudes.”</p><p>“Do I have a choice?” he asks, theatrical. “She’s got the dubious honor of being my friend, I think that means I have to listen to everything she says no matter what.”</p><p>“Damn right, Dirky.” Her smile is effortless and infectious. Dirk manages a faint one of his own.</p><p>“And, in the interest of that. I do want to make it clear that I’m not comparing Lalonde to Mother. She’s overprotective yes, and it is for your own good, but she has just your best interests at heart.” Dirk might not think Rose Lalonde is sincere about many things- the list is probably short enough that he could count the items out on the fingers of one hand- but there’s no denying just how much she cares about Roxy. He doesn’t even need to see them in the same room to know it; the fact of her leaving is enough. He still doesn’t know how she did it. He won’t ask.</p><p>“And that was fine, but I’m not a kid,” Roxy huffs. “Like. We’re the same age, and you still get to do all the important stuff, and I’m just told, nah, we’re busy, go do somethin’ else, but not too much else, ‘cause you can’t go out all that much, and you gotta take people with you whenever you do go!”</p><p>“...Roxy,” Dirk says, slow.</p><p>“I know, I know!” She throws her arms up in the air, the picture of frustration for a moment, before letting them fall. The fight hasn’t quite drained out of her.</p><p>“No, that’s not it. I was just going to say- I didn’t know that this was an issue for you? I thought at least part of it was because you were more comfortable behind the scenes, working on the cyber side of things.” He’s careful to phrase it properly; Dirk hasn’t seen her upset before, or this worked up about anything. He doesn’t want to make it worse.</p><p>“Well that’s <em>all</em> she’s okay with me doin’, too? And ‘s not like I’m bad at it, I’m prolly the best around, better ‘n Sollux, too, ‘specially with actually getting all up in the biz. He’s good at findin’ and leavin’ some nasty surprises in there, but. Y’know.” Dirk privately thinks that Captor probably couldn’t code his way out of a wet paper bag if he tried, but he doesn’t say that. Roxy isn’t wrong to be proud of herself.</p><p>“But you wish things were different,” he says delicately. “Is that why you’ve been coming by after all the meetings, to get me to tell you what your mother won’t?”</p><p>He’d feel used, but it’s difficult to, when she looks so guilty about it. And, well. It isn’t harming him in anyway, but it <em>is</em><span> something that Lalonde would approve of, so he’s not too upset about continuing to do it.</span></p><p>“<span>It’s not like we can’t talk about other stuff! I like talking to you,” she’s quick to reassure him. “’N we </span><em>do</em><span> talk about loads of cool stuff, but.”</span></p><p>She picks a little at the nailpolish on her nails, still a garish pink that matches her eyes, still a color that sets Dirk’s shoulders tensing if he sees it in the wrong lighting. He’ll never tell her that, though- she’ll worry too much. And, well. It does suit her.</p><p>“Iunno. This is gonna sound, like, <em>so</em> dumb, but- I wish Mom let me do more?”</p><p>Dirk thinks he is uniquely, desperately, unequipped to deal with this particular trouble of hers.</p><p>His upbringing was sheltered in a traditional sense, but he could never accuse Mother of not letting him do enough. If anything, she’d frequently accuse him of trying to do too much (as would Dave, but he’s long past giving a shit about being called a pathetic tryhard by his layabout brother). But he’d understood his role, and with all the resources invested in him and his education, how could he not want to be an efficient worker? An asset for the Company?</p><p>Of course, that went right out the window, but the point is that he’s never been shunted away from things like Roxy has, given useless busywork and patronized.</p><p>His busywork might’ve been useless, as are most of the echelons of bureaucracy in general, but there sure wasn’t anyone else around who was going to get through the paperwork if he didn’t.</p><p>“Uh,” he says, eloquently.</p><p>Thankfully, this is all she seems to need as encouragement to continue, and Dirk jots that one down for future reference. When in doubt, just smile and wave. Or in this case, smile and nod.</p><p>“Like, I know <em>why</em>, but I still dunno if that helps? Some days it does. She loves me, I get it, and I love her too, and I know she doesn’t want anything happening to me, but- I don’t wanna be stuck here for the rest of my life, and I don’t want to be- left out. Of everything.” That last part, she says so quietly Dirk almost has to strain to hear. Keratin scrapes against skin, a flake of nailpolish launches itself halfway across the room to land on the floor. “They’re planning somethin’, and, like. I don’t think I’m s’posed to tell you, but you’re gonna find out <em>anyway</em>, right? And she gets all quiet and hush hush when she so much as hears me walk near her when she’s talking about it, and it just sounds like bad news, and I <em>hate</em> not knowing what’s going on.”</p><p>“Uh,” he says, again. He needs to get a grip. “Have you…told her all of this?”</p><p>Roxy just scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest, almost defensively.</p><p>“I’m going to take that as a no, then.”</p><p>“Well-! I’ve told her some of it, I ask to go on missions, and I bug her and I bug her and then she does this thing where she looks at me like I’m some kinda toddler?”</p><p>“I’m aware of that thing, yes, but usually she tries to make me feel like some kind of insect,” Dirk says, gravely.</p><p>“Yeah, but. It doesn’t work on you!”</p><p>“Well, of course it doesn’t?” He tilts his head to the side slightly. “And even if it did, I could hardly let someone know if I was intimidated by them. It’d have been terrible for business.”</p><p>Roxy chews on her lower lip. Dirk resists the urge to tell her not to do that because it’s improper. Fuck propriety, he’s not going to let that shit anywhere near her if it kills him. As it very well might.</p><p>“Would you mind telling me what brought this on, anyway? Is it something she’s planning?” he ventures. He doesn’t want to be caught unawares by Rose Lalonde’s scheming, and he knows he’s not going to get the information out of Egbert by any means.</p><p>“I just <em>told </em>you I don’t know anything about what she’s doin’ beyond the like, vaguest details ‘n what you’ve already told me,” Roxy huffs. Petulant.</p><p>“I know, but something specific about this seems to be bothering you? Is it just the last straw, or is it that you think it’s something big in particular?” He has to be careful about how he gets this information, and- well. He does think the details on this one matter. It’s not like Roxy to be so overtly upset about anything.</p><p>“Lil of A, lil of B,” she shrugs.</p><p>“Does it…bother you that you think she’s going to tell me before she tells you? Or that, well. You’d be left behind, if things work the way she wants them to?” Dirk asks, delicate. “Because you know that I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know either way, but the second one would be more difficult to handle. Maybe I could Facetime you or something, get a GoPro and livestream it, if she lets me near anything decent with a camera.”</p><p>“I know.” Her posture softens, a little. “You’re good that way.”</p><p>“Well, I’m not sure anyone has ever told me that I’ve been good at being forthcoming with details,” Dirk drawls out. It’s a joke, meant to lighten the mood some, and it works. Roxy snickers. “Oh, laugh it up, Lalonde. You’d better not let that secret get out. I can’t handle my reputation for manipulation and lies going down the drain. What else do I have left after it?”</p><p>That’s just a shade too honest, and he’s beyond grateful that Roxy either doesn’t pick up on it, or chooses not to comment on it.</p><p>“You’re still a dick,” she says helpfully. “But, like. You’re good at solving problems ‘n shit, too. So I <em>guess</em> that might still be fine.”</p><p>“I like making problems better, but I’ll take what I can get,” Dirk sighs, melodramatic. “But, you should still talk to her about it. Seriously. Say you want-,” he pauses. “A chance to gain more experience, that you’re more than capable as a member of this group, that you’re equally prepared as anyone else, and that the risk is therefore the same as for anyone else and can be minimized in the same ways.”</p><p>“Dirk,” Roxy says. “That was <em>the</em> single most corporate thing you’ve ever said, oh em gee, what? That was like, word-for-word some kind of tutorial on how to tell your boss you want a promotion, but really politely?”</p><p>“It’s not <em>verbatim</em>,” he grumbles. “It’s paraphrased.”</p><p>“Oh my god. Dirk. Dirky, Dirku, bay-be. You sound like a capitalist <em>minion</em>. You sound like you’re in a cult! Blink twice if you need to be rescued, hon,” she teases, gently.</p><p>“Roxy,” he says, flatly. “I was a capitalist overlord. Get it right. If I was a minion, I wouldn’t have my own heated pool. Or <em>the</em> single most decadent bathroom you’ve ever seen, back home.”</p><p>“The pool sounds good, but- are you really, like. Missing a bathroom?”</p><p>“The water pressure was incredible. The range of temperatures, the showerhead- it was one of those rain ones, too. And it had a miniature sauna in it, for one person.” Dirk sighs wistfully, just thinking about it.</p><p>“Y’know, you do a real good impression of a dude who doesn’t care about all that luxury? Which is weird, ‘cause I know you were like, drowning in it,” Roxy remarks. “But, uh. You’re getting teary-eyed over a shower. That’s not normal?”</p><p>“You only say that because you didn’t see the shower in question. Mother’s aquatic, or at least semi-aquatic, so her bathroom was more focused on one of those enormous tubs, deep set into the ground. I think there was saltwater in there. Mine had a tub <em>and</em> the shower, so I could get the best of both worlds. I’ve spent hours in there at a time, just ask-,” he breaks off, awkwardly. “Well. I’ve spent a lot of time in there.”</p><p>“Um. That’s, too much information?” Her eyes are wide now, a slight pink flush creeping across her cheeks.</p><p>“What-?” It takes a minute for that to click, and Dirk feels the heat rush to his face. Oh, no. He has to play this cool. “Get your head out of the gutter, Lalonde. We should get back to the topic at hand, anyway, because I know you’d sell out to be a corporate minion if you were promised a shower like that.”</p><p>“Iunno about that! But <em>fine</em>.” She huffs out a breath, crossing her arms over her chest. It isn’t the smoothest segue he’s ever managed, but at least it worked. “I’m not gonna say <em>that</em> to her. She knows I’m capable, but, like. She’s so protective. But I can help, I’ve been helping, and- ugh. I’m <em>literally</em> ten minutes away from just sneaking out and doing something that needs doing under her nose! And then just bringing it back and waving it in her face.”</p><p>Dirk blinks, faintly alarmed by that. He’s very much discomfited by the thought of Roxy going out on her own, especially without telling anyone. But this is exactly the kind of thing she doesn’t want.</p><p>“I think you should at least have some backup, like she wants,” he says instead. “Not many people, just one or two, if you’re leaving this place.”</p><p>“Dirk.” There’s a note of warning in her tone.</p><p>“It’s got nothing to do with your abilities, and everything to do with planning for the worst,” he tells her, as earnestly as he can manage. “Besides, it’s always good to have a lookout. That being said, I think that you should try to convince her first.”</p><p>Roxy scrunches her whole face up; this is an answer on its own.</p><p>“Roxy, I am the last person who would recommend you talk to your mother. I’m the last person who would recommend anyone subject themselves to talking to her.”</p><p>“That’s….fair. You’re gonna need to tell me what your beef is with her sometime, though,” she says, cocking an eyebrow with him.</p><p>“It’s not beef. I don’t like her, and I especially dislike the way she acts as if she knows me, when she doesn’t,” Dirk tells her, matter-of-fact. His tone isn’t one that brooks any questions. Roxy asks one anyway.</p><p>“But she…kind of does, right? Her ‘n your brother, they’re the only ones who know what it’s like.” Roxy says it like this is something he ought to have realized on his own. Like this is something that should forgive Lalonde and Dave all their sins and transgressions. Dirk feels his mouth twist into a cold, cruel smile, before he can stop himself.</p><p>“No, they don’t. What she remembers and what I experienced are very different, especially in terms of Dave. And there is nothing beyond genetic material and Mother that I want to have in common with him. You’re getting off-topic again,” he adds, to gentle the blow. It doesn’t work, he knows. Roxy’s already withdrawn into herself some, arms wrapping around her torso. She’s not looking at him.</p><p>God. When did he become so soft? He wasn’t like this for Egbert. He certainly wasn’t like this for Dave.</p><p>“All I meant is that your mother and I aren’t going to see eye to eye on a great deal of things, and while I can acknowledge that her...attempts to relate to me are good-intentioned, they’re not helping,” he says. “That’s all.”</p><p>“You could just, like. Say that to her.” Oh, she’s clever, using his own words against him. Dirk doesn’t mind all that much.</p><p>“Roxy. This entire conversation has been somewhat about how difficult your mother is to talk to- and that’s for you, and she raised you.”</p><p>“...Okay. Fair. Fine! But you’re family too, even if things are….real weird with her, right now.” She huffs out a breath, cheeks puffing out before deflating. It’s dramatic, ridiculous, and Mother would have-</p><p>Well. Mother isn’t here to punish Roxy for being herself. In fact, Mother had not had the chance to sink her claws into this girl, and Dirk is traitorously grateful to Lalonde for it.</p><p>(And if he tucks what she said about them being family away, to be examined later, and if it lights a faint warmth in his chest, he won’t think too hard about it just yet.)</p><p>“Besides. We have some common ground,” he tells her, but he doesn’t say what. He thinks she knows, though, from the way her smile softens.</p><p>“Yeah. Guess you do. Hah, bet you <em>hate</em><span> that, huh, Dirky,” she teases.</span></p><p>“<span>Oh, like you wouldn’t believe. </span><span>Can we keep talking about you, though? I know I’m absolutely fascinating, but it isn’t as if I have a particularly time-sensitive problem that needs solving.”</span></p><p>“The way you talk sometimes is so dumb,” she says, fond. Dirk doesn’t bother fighting the urge to roll his eyes, even behind his shades. “But okay, okay. When d’you think I should, like, talk to her about it?”</p><p>“Honestly? The sooner, the better. It’ll give you more time to get more experience and figure out what role you’ll be playing, and more time to convince her if she seems very reticient about it.” He taps his index finger against his thigh absently as he thinks, counting out a steady rhythm. “Which I expect she might be. But you’re- stubborn.”</p><p>“Wow, thanks?”</p><p>“You’re welcome,” he replies, deadpan. “But it wasn’t a compliment.”</p><p>It was. She smiles like she knows it. Gross.</p><p>“Suuuuure it wasn’t. But- y’think she’ll listen? I mean. I don’t want her to <em>not</em> listen but I don’t wanna make it into a huge blowout fight or anything, we haven’t had a fight in ages and I just, I know she’s got enough on her plate right now?” Roxy’s smile fades as she relates this, her gaze focused on where she’s absently picking away at the veneer of her nailpolish. Little shiny black flakes go flying onto the floor. Dirk’ll have to clean that up later, and it bothers him, but it’s fine.</p><p>“And like you said, you’re not a kid anymore. Tell her that you’re going to help, and make sure she sees your side,” he says firmly. “You can do it. I’d vouch for you too, if I didn’t think it would convince her to do the opposite.”</p><p>Still, Roxy’s eyes practically light up.</p><p>“You <em>would</em>?”</p><p>“I would,” Dirk repeats, and the gleam in her eye shifts to something a bit more calculated.</p><p>“Okay, well!” She claps her hands together, once. “I’d better get practicin’ my whole spiel.”</p><p>He has the distinct sense that maybe, just this once, he’s gotten in over his head.</p>
<hr/><p>“What media horror show are you intent on subjecting me to tonight?” Crocker asks, almost as soon as John walks into the room. John just rolls his eyes, because for someone who’s been spoonfed nothing but terrible, probably-brainwashing things, Dirk is ridiculously picky. And stupidly set against Nic Cage for reasons which John doesn’t fully understand, but finds incredibly entertaining.</p><p>Dirk’s warmed to them more since the beginning, though; back then he’d sit through the whole thing with eyes wide open, tense as a board, like he wasn’t even allowed to blink. He was quiet, too, until he realized that John didn’t mind him talking through it- though that might have been a mistake, since Dirk consequently won’t shut up or stop critiquing his taste in movies. Which, by the way, are impeccable. He doesn’t need Dirk fucking Crocker of all people shitting on the cinema he enjoys.</p><p>“The worst thing you’ve ever seen, I’m sure,” he answers, opening up the little portable DVD player he brings with him.</p><p>“So, Lalonde sent you in with this for my re-education and you don’t know what it is yourself,” Dirk says in a concise summary that’s just- plain wrong. “Well, at least it’ll be better than all those terrible romance movies you forced on me. The Geneva Convention would hang you for that.”</p><p>“I think you really don’t understand how the Geneva Convention works, one. And two- it’s not re-education, I don’t know why you keep calling it that,” John says, for what has to be the nth time. The corporate lingo is still as annoying as ever, except this time, John isn’t really sure he likes the implications behind it. And even then, chances are Dirk is really just saying that to fuck with him. Ugh. He sometimes wonders why he keeps coming to these.</p><p>“I’m calling it that simply because that’s what it is, even if you refuse to acknowledge it as such. These are designed to make me see your perspective and make me more sympathetic towards it, to the point where I agree with you entirely. Brainwashing by any other name is still brainwashing,” Crocker shoots back easily, well-practiced. Slim fingers drum against the taut muscle of his thigh. “Though perhaps your taste changes it from brainwashing to simple torture. Cruel and unusual punishment. I congratulate you on your creativity, Mr. Egbert, it’s truly a torment which I had yet to encounter.”</p><p>“What? My taste in movies is <em>not</em><span> that bad,” John huffs. Because it isn’t. This guy hasn’t even </span><em>seen</em><span> any good movies yet, except probably like, Rocky Horror or something. All he’s watched are those dumb propaganda cartoons, and John’s going to find a classic movie that Dirk likes, he swears.</span></p><p>Well, not to Dirk. But he has to, if he wants to save his pride.</p><p>Which is why today? He’s bringing out the big guns.</p><p>“<em>Anyway</em><span>,” he continues, picking the DVD up and slotting it into the player, and just ignoring Dirk’s look of disdain at, like. Normal technology or whatever. “We’re not watching a movie, we’re going to watch a TV show. So the episodes are short, and if you don’t like it, you don’t like it.”</span></p><p>“A TV show,” Dirk says, dubious. But he hasn’t protested outright, at least? “And this is, a good show?”</p><p>Dick.</p><p>“It’s a show! Just shut up and watch, okay? I think you’re gonna like it, anyhow.” And he’s not going to admit to how he ended up picking this, because Dirk does not need to know he ended up caving and asking Roxy for recommendations after three solid weeks of Dirk shitting on every cinematic masterpiece that John had decided to put on. He also doesn’t need to know that Roxy had just flopped dramatically onto the couch and complained about the exact same thing, how he didn’t even cry at Titanic, John, that’s so fucked up, everyone cries at Titanic. Apparently he’d not been as downright snarky to her as he is with John, but he’d also sat there and listed off all the historical inaccuracies in the movie, which is probably worse.</p><p>(And it’s easy to tell now that it’s just gentle ribbing, but he hadn’t been sure, at first. They didn’t really do a lot of <em>gentle ribbing</em>, and okay, he didn’t know that Dirk was actually capable of it anyway. But it was a nice surprise.)</p><p>Dirk makes a quiet, skeptical noise in the back of his throat that is somehow twice as devastating as actually answering him. John really needs to learn how to do that- either from him, or from Rose, although Rose doesn’t even need to make any noise. All she needs to do is look, she’s evolved.</p><p>“Listen. If you don’t like it, you get to pick the next one. How’s that?” John asks, returning to the couch. He flops into his usual spot, keeping a good distance between him and Dirk.. Just two guys sitting five feet apart on a couch because they definitely have gay history and it’s not awkward, not one bit, and also one of them is ex-Crocker and the other is someone very anti-Crocker who brought him here to begin with.</p><p>As with plenty of situations with Dirk, it feels like the setup to a bad joke. John really wishes he knew what the punchline would be.</p><p>“That’s fine,” Dirk says. He sounds decisive, but he always sounds decisive. “Hit play, Egbert, and let the torture commence.”</p><p>“It’s not torture!”</p><p>Honestly, John probably needs to just give up on this as a lost cause- Dirk is always going to call their movie nights weird names and he should stop rising to the bait for it, because it isn’t even specific bait for him. He’s heard Dirk call it the exact same thing to Roxy- and once, Rose, which was actually the most embarrassing thing to happen to him. He definitely does refer to all his meetings- and okay, maybe they started out as interrogations, but now that he’s in on some actual planning? John is going to start thinking of them as meetings- as sessions on the rack, and he makes a lot of weird references to drawing and quartering. Which, they don’t even have the horses for it, he’s pretty sure. Where would they even get those in this economy?</p><p>“Just, be quiet and watch, okay?”</p><p>Dirk, to his credit, takes this with some grace and actually is quiet as John hits play. At least until the title comes on, at which point he straightens up somewhat.</p><p>“This seems familiar, but off-brand. I can’t imagine where you even dug up a copy, I didn’t think My Little Hoofbeast: Quadrants Are Strict Relationships That Are Governmentally Mandated And Extremely Important was popular enough among human audiences to rip off. Especially not shortening the title that much.” Okay, John officially has no idea what the fuck that is supposed to mean.</p><p>“We had it lying around,” he says instead.</p><p>To be honest, when Rose had suggested this, he really did not think it would be a good idea. Sure, give the guy who mocks anything and picks everything apart and deconstructs it in the most cynical way humanly possible a kids’ show! Nothing could possibly go wrong.</p><p>“Counter-propaganda,” Dirk says wisely. “Makes sense. Did Lalonde put you up to this?”</p><p>Obviously, though, she doesn’t know <em>everything</em>, and John is going to go rub her dumb face in it as soon as Dirk finishes ripping these poor cartoon ponies to shreds. He’s already being ridiculously cynical about it- which is definitely his base state, but still. He’s going to be way worse once John tells him about the <em>bronies</em>, though. Hah. He definitely doesn’t seem to know about those, which would almost make John feel bad, if he didn’t think it would be hilarious to spell out.</p><p>(Who’s relishing in the novelty of being the one to explain something to Dirk for once, to make him experience something new and be on the right side of the joke for once? Not him, that’s who. John is being totally normal and casual and friendly about it, because that is a thing he can do. Has been doing.)</p><p>This might actually be the first time he’s looked forward to Dirk being a dick about what he’s watching, and honestly, John has probably psyched himself up too much about it to have realistic expectations. But, y’know. Bottom line, something should be happening by now beyond a passing remark on familiarity- because that’s not new, either, Dirk says it sometimes, especially about the romcoms Karkat had recommended.</p><p>Except-</p><p>It doesn’t happen, this time.</p><p>The entire dumb snotty monologue about Nightmare Moon (and John isn’t actually that into it, this isn’t denial, because he also knows it’s a cartoon and not that serious, so it won’t even be that intense when she does show up) passes, and Dirk doesn’t say a word. No, instead his brows draw down and the familiar little divot between them appears to show he’s thinking hard about something. What he could be thinking about, John has no idea. He hasn’t really given up on figuring out, but it’s definitely taken a backseat. Even when he’s talking, Dirk’s hard to read.</p><p>There’s a point where he actually gasps out loud- and of course it’s on seeing Rainbow Dash, why wouldn’t it be, and for some bizarre reason, he murmurs, “that’s what she looks like? That should be <em>illegal</em>,” which-</p><p>Okay, it’s worrying for about ten different reasons, none of which John is really sure he wants to venture into.</p><p>And then there’s the part where he’s literally on the edge of his seat and clearly staring at the book Twinkle Purple is reading about the Elements of Harmoneigh or whatever, and then the bit where he actually fucking startles as Nightmare Moon (who, in a shocking plot twist, was there, wow) appears at the end of the episode.</p><p>This is insane.</p><p>John wonders if he’s finally just, dove off the deep end, or been transported into some alternate universe where this is normal and Dirk not-Crocker really, really likes ponies. Oh, god, what if he’s turned former-President and Bad Dude Dirk Crocker into a brony? This has to be worse than fucking him, John is pretty sure. This is a crime he’s just not going to be coming back from.</p><p>The episode ends, and the credits start rolling, and John hits pause before the next one can start up.</p><p>“Well?” he asks, but it’s pretty rhetorical. Dirk’s expression kind of says it all. “How was that for the first part of the torture session?”</p><p>There’s a flush on his cheeks, and Dirk looks- flustered. Younger. Human. Lost for words, for maybe once in his entire life. John thinks he likes him that way. He knew this one would be a hit, especially after Secretariat. And, of course, the rather interesting artwork that hung in Dirk’s office, no matter how many of them John defaced.</p><p>“That-,” he pauses, turning to look at the screen, and then at John again. “That is <em>extremely, highly illegal</em>, Mr. Egbert.”</p><p>Uh. Okay.</p><p>“Please tell me there’s more,” he says, all in a big rush, like he’s ashamed for even wanting to know it.</p><p>“There is,” John says, reassuring. “I think Rose sent me here with a solid half of the first season.”</p><p>“Put it on.” And they’re back to imperious and demanding, although it’s much harder to take it seriously this time around, when it’s over something as ridiculous as the original human series of My Little Pony.</p><p>“Okay, okay, calm down. How are you so bossy? Never hear of not biting the hand that feeds you?” John grumbles. He’s not serious about it, though, and he gets the next episode going.</p><p>Yeah. This is why he keeps coming back, he realizes, with a sinking feeling in his chest.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>He's back, baby.</p><p>Warnings this chapter for discussion of the Helmsblock.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The very last person that Dirk expected to see outside his room was Sollux Captor himself, and yet here he is. Dirk blinks once. He is still there, teeth bared in a snarl. Well, given the state of those chompers, they are usually bared, though the snarl is new. This cannot be good news.</p><p>“There you are, Crocker,” he bites out. “I’ve been waiting for ages, and where have you been, throwing a tea party, except you’re by yourself and no one’s there because no one likes you since you’re an irredeemable piece of shit?”</p><p>He was right. It isn’t good news. However, after having dealt with both Dave and John, and, well, Noir, Dirk has to admit that insults so lame are almost kind of endearing.</p><p>“You know,” Dirk starts, gesturing for the troll to move aside so he can unlock his door. And it is absolutely a novelty, having a door that locks, one he doesn’t yet tire of. “Just because I’m an irredeemable piece of shit and get laid more than you does not mean you need to be jealous. Take heart, you’ll get there too, one day.”</p><p>“Wow, did you just tell a joke? Alert the media.” His eyes narrow, and Dirk can see it, because his glasses are absolutely useless and he looks like a Doctor Who cosplayer, but worse.</p><p>(Roxy has taken to watching the show with him. He approves, even if it doesn’t make any sense. The paradoxes <em>alone</em> would drive Dave insane- which is part of the reason for his approval, really.)</p><p>“That would be strategically unsound, given the current situation,” Dirk says, like he would if it were anyone else. He’s quite good at operating on autopilot while trying to figure out what, exactly, is going on. The insults are predictable, Sollux Captor being here is not. They don’t like each other. In fact, Dirk has barely been able to restrain himself from trying to bash the troll’s head in, just because he’d pulled that trick with his psionics on him the first time they’d met.</p><p>It had been an unfortunate first impression, but one that had set the tone for the rest of their interactions. Dirk tends to hold a grudge. But in his defense, it doesn’t <em>really</em> interfere with anything.</p><p>Sollux opens his mouth to talk, and Dirk decides to interrupt him neatly. “But- that’s besides the point. To what do I owe the...pleasure, of this visit? I didn’t think you knew where my humble abode was, but if you’d like a tour, I’m afraid there’s no weapon of mass destruction around. I’ve yet to get the parts I ordered, so you’ll need to wait.”</p><p>“Do you ever stop being such a huge fucking asshole, DK?” he asks, crossing his skinny arms over his chest. “Like, holy shit. I thought you were bad as a Crocker but you’re just fucking worse as a person.”</p><p>“Careful, Captor, you just recognized me as a person. Any more of that and I’ll have to start thinking you actually like me.”</p><p>“As fucking <em>if</em>,” he snarls, with twice the venom like that can make up for it.</p><p>Dirk ignores it, and his door swings open. He tucks the key into the pocket of the- ugh- <em>jeans</em>, he’s been provided and steps inside, only to have Captor walk in right after him. Great. Apparently, something about him is giving off the impression that he likes visitors and in fact wants to host them, the more irritating the better.</p><p>(This, he recognizes, is unfair to Roxy, who can be annoying if he’s feeling particularly uncharitable, but in the cold light of day always seems to be the kind of annoying he actually needs. Besides, no one can be worse than Dave. No one.)</p><p>“What do you want, exactly?” he asks, because Captor is doing a lot of staring around a room that is entirely standard issue, Dirk is fairly sure. He hasn’t exactly <em>done</em> anything with the space beyond move some of his things here, and the only items he’s accumulated are books and clothes, none of which are on display. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m busy, and if it was anything <em>official</em>, I imagine there’d be someone else here. Is this where you finally snap and vaporize me with your magical laser eyes? Because if so, you ought to have done it ages ago and put me out of my fucking misery.”</p><p>This, he recognizes, is unfair to everyone. He’s not miserable- not any more than he usually is, at least. And certainly in a different way, one that he doesn’t particularly want to examine, though that hasn’t exactly stopped him from examining it.</p><p>Captor just snarls harder. How original. “Listen, fuckface, I didn’t come here to make <em>nice</em> with you.”</p><p>“If you had, I’d be far more worried someone had manage to slap a TiaraTop on <em>your</em> head,” Dirk snaps back. “It’s a good indicator, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Fuck you, I came here to talk, not let you go and provoke me into being a huge asshole. Even more of a huge asshole,” Captor amends after a moment, apparently not above being self-aware.</p><p>“I’m hardly provoking,” Dirk says. But it <em>is</em> a conciliatory gesture of some kind, and so he moderates his tone accordingly. He’s tired, and while a part of him does itch to split his knuckles open on Captor’s ridiculous fangs, the simmering rage and stress that had allowed the troll to get under his skin so badly earlier is gone. Productivity clearly works wonders for the mind; Dirk’s control over himself is precisely where he’d like it to be. “But, you said you came here to talk?”</p><p>“Yes.” <em>Yeth</em>. Nothing further is provided, and Dirk bites down a sigh. Captor still looks mutinous.</p><p>“I honestly have no idea what it is you want to <em>talk</em> about, unless talking is a euphemism for something,” he says, pointedly. It’s meant to get Captor to actually say what he wants to, and, well. Dirk has already put himself at a disadvantage by admitting he doesn’t know why Captor is here, he has to temper that somehow. When he <em>still</em> stays quiet, Dirk continues. “I’m assuming it’s not, of course, because you’re, well. You. Which leaves the possibility that this is work-related, but again. I doubt that, because others would be here, and you would’ve attended the earlier meeting to raise the issue. So, it could be personal, and this is where the train stops in the middle of the tracks because there’s some unfortunate carcass sprawled across it. Or a tree branch, if you want to be less grim.”</p><p>“Less grim isn’t something I do. Are you done playing Trollock Holmes or what?” Surly, still, but defensive now. Dirk was right; it has to be personal in some way.</p><p>“Probably,” Dirk finally admits. “If it’s personal, which I’m now pretty fuckin’ sure it is, bro, we’ve never had an actually meaningful conversation. At least not one that would’ve stuck in your head enough for you to come bother me over it.”</p><p>“Wow, I knew acting like you know everything was going to come bite your right in the ass, but I didn’t think I’d have a front-row seat to it,” he answers, scathing. Dirk just raises an eyebrow in return; he knows very well how to look completely unaffected, and he thinks that’s what will get under this guy’s skin the most. Whether or not he’s racking his brains to try and figure out <em>what</em> could be so fuckin’ personal that Captor had not only come to see him about it, but had also apparently been thinking hard about it, is his own business. He does come up with an answer, but he’s not really sure it’s the right one. It’s not one he can consider right now, anyway.</p><p>But Captor finally answers through gritted fangs, like each word is painful to say. “You’re the one who went and said she’d do the same thing to you as she would to me.”</p><p>It takes Dirk a second to actually register what he’s talking about- he has a perfect recall, yes, but he’s also said a <em>lot </em>of things.</p><p>“We had that conversation a long time ago. I wasn’t aware that you had the brain cells left in your pan for such a long memory,” he says, the insult now automatic. He hadn’t realized his slip at the time had been remembered. Captor had never bothered to talk about it before.</p><p>“It was last month, suck my creaking bone bulge.”</p><p>“I said what I said.” Well, this is a game that Dirk is very good at playing, and he doubts he’s out of practice. He’s singularly irritating, it’s a talent at this point. “But I regret to inform you that I have standards, and you wouldn’t meet them even with the world’s most impressive glow-up.”</p><p>To Dirk’s eternal surprise, the troll actually <em>flushes</em>, yellow staining his cheeks.</p><p>(It’s a filthy color, part of him notes, and he promptly tells it to shut the fuck up. Another part is pretty satisfied at the sight, because it means he’s gotten a reaction, it means that he’s one this little game of one-upmanship. There’s nothing more to it than that, though. He’s not going to go down this road <strike> again </strike>.)</p><p>“Okay, well, that was the most uncomfortable thing anyone has ever said to me and not what I came here to talk about. I knew you couldn’t keep it in your pants but if this face is doing it for you, you don’t need to deny it.” It comes a second too late to be part of the volley, but-</p><p>What.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“From now on I should just wear a shirt that says to ignore everything that comes out of my dumb stupid mouth until I tell you not to. This is fucking ridiculous, wow,” Sollux says, making a quick retreat...deeper into the room.</p><p>Dirk is not sure this is how it is meant to go. Granted, he’s not even sure <em>what</em> this is at the moment.</p><p>“The shirt is paradoxical in and of itself,” he answers. “And- by all means, make yourself comfortable.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah. Why do you have so much soda? The fuck? This isn’t even the good kind. Why don’t you have the good kind?”</p><p>“Because this is cheaper and won’t poison me? And I like it. Your kind isn’t sweet enough.” Dirk is not sure he’s meant to be defending his beverage choices, by any means.</p><p>“How do you know it won’t poison you?” Blue and red sparks surround one of the cans, and it’s shoved rudely into Dirk’s face before he can register how the sight of psionics still discomfits him. He snatches it out of the air, focuses on the cold bite of metal against his skin, the hiss of overcarbonation as he pries the tab open.</p><p>It burns on his tongue, saccharine citrus.</p><p>“I’ve had worse,” he answers instead. And it’s true; he and Dave were the ones that Mother tested the very first batches on, ostensibly to build up a resistance in them, and because she does- did- like to have them taste-test. Dirk hadn’t ever had an issue with it. “Besides, there’s not anything too addictive in here other than sugar. It seems Lalonde splurged for the more expensive shit.”</p><p>Captor just sneers. Dirk figures that’s fair enough. He hadn’t really thought about it before, how insidious the different ingredients in different product lines were- and not simply because he wasn’t involved in production. Even now, it makes a certain sense, but only now does it make him faintly sick to think about.</p><p>How weak she would think him now. Dirk tries to put that out of his mind; he has to focus on his visitor. It wouldn’t do to be rude.</p><p>“Anyway,” he says. Smooth. “You haven’t actually said what it is you’re here for. And there’s some of the orange juice from your greenhouses there too, if you look in the back.”</p><p>“No Monster?” Captor asks instead, somehow sounding disappointed by the fact that Dirk is sensible enough to not have that swill. Not even Mother would touch it, though she did admire the marketing, and the audacity it took to pack that many stimulants into a drink and still be able to sell it without a prescription. Or a lawsuit. She’d taken plenty of pages from their book, apparently, but she’s never bothered to try and obtain that particular brand name despite having largely absorbed all of Coca-Cola.</p><p>As Dave’s said, she’s put the coke back in it.</p><p>“Sorry,” Dirk says, entirely insincere. “I don’t drink that. I’ve detoxed already, thanks, there’s no need for me to put <em>more</em> of that into my body. It takes a lot of work to look this good, Captor, not that you’d know.”</p><p>“Go to hell,” Captor tells him, sincere, and opens the orange juice to chug it right from the bottle Dirk gets it in. What the <em>fuck</em>. So much for the laws of brospitality- tenuous as they were to begin with, since the guy had just walked in without real invitation.</p><p>“Already here, I’m afraid,” Dirk deadpans. He moves over to sink into his shitty couch, all angles and springs, but he minds it a lot less when he’s awake than he does after falling asleep on it. It’s not soft enough that it threatens to swallow him whole, nor is it pristine white that would be ruined if he so much as looked at it wrong, let alone sat on it. “And you still haven’t told me what you’re here for.”</p><p>“I’m here to talk. Obviously. I’ve seen how you’ve been looking at me through the whole meetings, like you’ve got something stuffed up your wastechute, and I want to know what your deal is with that. Especially with what you said.” That is- remarkably unclear, for such a decisive statement. Dirk decides he should play it safe for now.</p><p>“There’s no deal. I don’t like you, and you don’t like me,” he says simply. “So I ignore the way you keep trying to glare a hole through my skull without using your psionics, and you ignore the fact that I can only suffer the sight of you so much.”</p><p>Safe, he’d said. He needs to fix this one.</p><p>“Not- to imply anything untoward. We’ve got plenty of other shit to focus on right now, bro, the throbbing hateboners- non-existent as they are- are going to have to wait.” That’s not much better. Dirk isn’t sure if he’s gotten rusty, or if things were genuinely much easier with John. “And you have to admit that you started it with all that about how I’m looking at you. I look at everyone, with at least some modicum of disrespect.”</p><p>“Alright, DK, I’m willing to give you that one because I’m feeling generous today, but that doesn’t answer the question. And you’re a slippery shit, too.” Two fingers, for whatever reason, are jabbed his way to emphasize this.</p><p>“Thanks,” Dirk says.</p><p>“Fuck you, it wasn’t a compliment. Keep your ego under control before we both suffocate. While that’d be a sweet release from this shit, it wasn’t ever going to be that easy for either of us,” Captor mutters, sour. Unfortunately, Dirk can’t even disagree.</p><p>“Ain’t that the truth.”</p><p>“Stop agreeing with me.”</p><p>“Trust me, I don’t exactly like you being right.” Dirk thinks it’s fine if they get carried away a little with some meaningless banter. Banter, not flirting, because they’ve both established it isn’t really flirting.</p><p>“No one does, but that doesn’t stop me,” Captor says, with a toothy smirk. God. “It wouldn’t kill you to just open your mouth and talk for once now that I’m actually asking you to, would it? Because if so, you sure had a lot to say before when I wasn’t.”</p><p>“Death’s a funny thing,” Dirk tries, deadpan. His effort is met with a wholly unimpressed Captor, and the thought of that dickhead believing he has the high ground in this is demoralizing enough. Dirk sighs. “You haven’t even been specific about what you want me to say. Your issue seems to be that I’m looking at you disrespectfully? I already answered that- I don’t actually respect you. Problem solved. It doesn’t have to be a federal fuckin’ issue.”</p><p>“No,” Captor says. “That’s not it. Nice try, though you put shit-all effort into it.”</p><p>Dirk narrows his eyes behind his shades. “Why, Mr. Captor. Are you saying that I’m lying?”</p><p>“Also no. I don’t give a shit if you respect me or not; I don’t need you to. I barely even want you to, if you respected me, it’d be a sign I was doing something wrong, like the opposite of a ‘good job’ signal from the universe. Not that it’s ever done me any favors that way, but you get the picture.” Dirk is honestly not sure what part of that he should be offended at first, but he decides it’s going to have to be this asshole thinking he has the moral high ground.</p><p>“But,” Captor continues, smug like he shouldn’t be, “You said what you said, and I know it’s related, and you’re going to tell me what’s up, because I <em>know</em> you haven’t seen any pissbloods like me before. And you’d need to count me surprised if you saw any up in your ivory tower. I’d owe KK more Caegars than exist if that’s true.”</p><p>“Looks like you’re in a hell of a lot of debt,” Dirk remarks, caustically. He isn’t sure he wants to talk about this, not really, but does it matter when he’s already given so much else away? Does it matter, when Captor clearly will not fucking leave, and if Dirk tries to make him, that’s only going to make things worse?</p><p>“Wh- to which one?” His eyes narrow behind the tint of his glasses; Dirk doesn’t meet them. Even through his shades, he refuses to.</p><p>“...Both,” he says, grudging. “You looked like someone I knew. Well, knew is a real strong word for it. Encountered might be more apt. So, you owe Vantas money because I’ve met lowbloods anyway, and whatever bet you had with yourself is also lost, because I’ve met one like you.”</p><p>“How the fuck many of us is she turning into batteries,” Captor spits, and his face is contorted into a snarl. Sparks fly in the air; this is a sore topic for him for- well. Obvious reasons. Dirk isn’t relieved to be able to give him the truth.</p><p>“That I know of? None,” he says. “Which, by the way- stupid fuckin’ question, bro. She doesn’t have any interstellar flights planned that <em>anyone</em> other than her knows about. I’d have found out otherwise, and if I didn’t, Roxy would’ve.”</p><p>“Then where the <em>fuck</em> did you meet a psionic?” he pushes on anyway, his fingers curled tight into fists. Dirk determinedly quashes down the flicker of guilt, of knowing he was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be, of knowing that whoever he tells is going to <em>tell her</em>. Captor sure isn’t going to tell Mother shit, and even if he did, that is the least of his sins against her, at this point.</p><p>“In a tank,” he says, grudging. “I don’t know how long he’s been there. It’s not like we <em>talked</em> that much. Or at all. Shit was pretty one-sided. I don’t even know who he is, only that he had horns like yours. And teeth, I guess. There’s a noticeable resemblance, despite everything.”</p><p>There’s something stricken and raw on Captor’s face for a second. Dirk looks away, to give him the privacy of it, but he can see the accusations already forming on his lips. And Dirk isn’t going to stand to deal with <em>that</em> right now.</p><p>“I didn’t put him there,” Dirk says sharply, before Sollux can say anything. “And I’ve confessed to plenty of crimes, but I won’t be taking the blame for something that existed long before Mother even thought about Earth, and especially not when it doesn’t even <em>exist</em> on Earth.” The <em>not yet</em> hangs in the air between them, but it isn’t what Captor points out.</p><p>“No. I guess you’re not a bad person for that <em>particular</em> reason, it’s just all the other shit that makes you irredeemable,” Sollux snarls, but Dirk can tell his heart isn’t in it. Poor fucker. But Dirk can’t blame him either, this conversation has been exhausting, and he clearly doesn’t want to be having it. Begs the question of why even be here to begin with, but Dirk is not one to try to understand what is going on in this dude’s mind.</p><p>“I would have taken him with me, if I could,” he offers instead. Dirk is not good at sounding genuine, but this time, when Captor’s eyes meet his own, they soften slightly. He doesn’t comment on it. “It was- strange. Honestly. I could never tell if he was listening, or- how much of him was left.”</p><p>“How much did you know? About him, I mean.” Olive branch taken. Thankfully. Sollux doesn’t sound less angry, by any means, but he does sound less angry at <em>him</em>.</p><p>“Not much. I wasn’t even meant to find that room, I think, let alone be in it. Everything there was old, and metal. None of it recognizable, except the logo.” Dirk drums his fingers against his thigh. “Even when I tried to find out what- who- was there, I came up on dead end after dead end, until only recently, when I found the file on the Helmsman. Until I was allowed to find the file on the Helmsman. It seems ridiculous to say that maybe it was because he wanted me to know, but what other reason could there be, right?”</p><p>“Why you?” Sollux presses, and there’s something jagged in his voice. “Why a human, someone who was just like that fucking bitch? You don’t know who he was, but I do. All of us, I mean, there were fucking stories about that shit. You know there were only two rebellions on Alternia, and neither of them succeeded? Lowbloods, we don’t live that fucking long in comparison, but you can sure say we keep trying. He was part of the first one.”</p><p>This isn’t a story that Dirk’s heard before- at least, not that he’s recognized. Mother was always reticent to share too much about her home planet, and Dirk had known much better than to pry. It’s not exactly ideal, to be reminded of the place you only have a shitty replacement for, by someone who’s a shitty replacement in and of themselves.</p><p>“There was this mutantblood- red, candy red.” Captor has to see something on his face there. “Yeah, like KK. Pretty much fucking exactly like KK, since no one else has ever had that mutation since. He tried to change things, saw visions of a better world. What a hack, all I get is apocalyptic bullshit. Anyway, he wanted equality. Lowbloods and highbloods to be equal. Or at least those cold fuckers not culling us whenever they fucking wanted. Which we all fucking want to a point, but he wouldn’t shut up about it.”</p><p>Dirk can start to see where this is going. “She killed him, I assume.”</p><p>“Ye- okay, listen, I’m trying to tell you a story here, you can’t skip to the end of it,” Captor says, but he doesn’t sound very put out about it.</p><p>“If you’re going to moralize, I think the end is the most important part,” Dirk points out. “And besides. What other ending was there going to be?”</p><p>“You’re a ray of fucking sunshine, you know that?”</p><p>“I’ve been told,” Dirk says smoothly. But he keeps his mouth shut once he has, and it’s enough for Captor to sigh out a long breath, and keep going.</p><p>“So he started talking, and he started gaining followers, like those weird dudes you have who talk about religion here-,”</p><p>“Sorry, are you telling me the story of Troll Jesus? Because he definitely had the worst end out of all the ‘weird dudes we have who talk about religion’,” Dirk interrupts, his eyebrows raising. He’s fascinated despite himself, though; Mother knows what she wants this world to look like, and Dirk understands, intuitively, that it must be some version of Alternia, but tailor-made for her. What little she had shared had been accordingly edited, and this? Dirk is confident that this never would’ve made it into any kind of story she had, let alone a precautionary tale (she was very fond of pointing out the bloody ways she’d killed heiresses, for example).</p><p>“Are you going to keep fucking interrupting me or what,” Captor says flatly. He’s getting annoyed now, and Dirk has to tamp down on the urge to make it worse.</p><p>“...No,” he answers, with just enough of a pause to be a dick.</p><p>“You can’t even help yourself. It’s chronically annoying, and I’m the poor fucker who has to deal with it. Great,” Captor mutters. “This is what I get for trying to get a real question answered, punished by your hornless moronitude.”</p><p>“That’s not a word.” Well, he couldn’t keep quiet on that count. “Just keep going, bro. I’m listening.”</p><p>“So trolls were listening to him, is the point,” Captor continues. He still looks like he’s bitten into a lemon Gusher, though. “And none of them were highbloods, because why would <em>they</em> want to change things when they had it so good, right? Fucking assholes. There was the Disciple, who was real loyal to him, and then his- huh, okay, I was going to say weird lusus, but you have a word for that, so mother, I guess-, and then a psionic who’d managed to escape the line to the Helmscolumns.” He pauses here, meets Dirk’s gaze. It’s not a very effective way to build suspense, but Dirk is hooked anyway. He’s trying not to seem too engaged; it doesn’t seem right to give Captor the satisfaction, but it’s a losing battle.</p><p>“The pilot,” he breathes out, quiet. “The Helmsman. But- wait, hold on. I don’t know a lot about trolls of his- well, your- blood caste, but. That would make him-,”</p><p>“Real delicately put there, DK. But yeah, he’s way fucking older than he should be,” Captor supplies. “Yeah. She took him after the Signless was killed- executed on her order, by the way, and there’s part of the story related to that too, but it’s not the point. This was thousands of sweeps ago.”</p><p>Dirk had known Mother was old, too. But it’s another thing to be confronted with the irrefutable fact of it.</p><p>“How?” he asks simply.</p><p>“What do you mean, how? I was going to fucking ask you that. You’re her wriggler, shouldn’t you know?” Sollux is levelling him with a deeply unimpressed look, now.</p><p>“She raised me, yeah. That doesn’t mean she told me the secret of- what, immortality? It’s got to be something ridiculous like that; he survived the crash, too. The one that landed her here,” Dirk adds, for context. He’s not sure it’s needed. “I’m not saying he’s in good shape. But he is alive.”</p><p>“Alive when he shouldn’t be,” Captor mutters to himself. “You really don’t know how she did it?”</p><p>“You could ask Lalonde, you know,” Dirk tells him. Not that he’s one to talk, about asking Lalonde anything. He’d rather eat rusty nails. “Knowing what she shouldn’t is her whole thing.”</p><p>Captor makes a face at that. “No thanks. I’m not dealing with all her cryptic hoofbeastshit like some stabletroll. God. It’s fucked up when you’re somehow the direct one, but fine. I want my answer now, asshole.”</p><p>His answer. Dirk is quiet as he picks through the conversation until he can remember the question. “You wanted to know what I knew about him. The answer’s none of that, by the way. All that information’s long gone.”</p><p>“You were just one step down from her, and he wanted to talk to you? Wanted you to know who he was? I don’t buy it,” Captor finishes, shaking his head. He’s- clearly feeling some kind of way about it, and Dirk keeps a wary eye on the sparks that flicker between his horns. The air nearly crackles with ozone, again, but it doesn’t feel threatening this time.</p><p>That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t also feel like the air is being sucked out of the room. But Dirk reminds himself to breathe anyway. He’s fine. This is fine. She isn’t here.</p><p>“I can’t tell you why. I told you, there’s no real record of this anywhere I could find. And I have no idea whether he remembers any of it, either. It’s- what she does, too. Gets in your head and scoops out everything that she doesn’t want there. All those years? I don’t know how he’s even conscious some of the time.” It’s a painful thing to say, made worse by the flicker of hurt that crosses Captor’s face. Dirk can see what he’s thinking easily: <em>that could’ve been me</em>. It could still be him, if what they’re doing doesn’t work. “But I figure the reason might be simple: Because I was there. Because I was looking. I think he knew who I was, sure, but it’s not like there were plenty other options. There doesn’t have to be anything to it, more than that. It’s not- If you want me to tell you who he was, or fun facts about the guy, I can’t. I told you, we never talked. The only person who could is probably Mother, and I can’t imagine she’d be that talkative on the topic. Or maybe she would, she always likes a good gloat.”</p><p>“That’s fucking disgusting,” Captor announces.</p><p>“I never said that I agreed with it.” Dirk hesitates, his fingers curling into a fist against his thigh. “I don’t know what he did, to end up like that. Your blood caste doesn’t live that long. Not even with the best care around. Especially not in the Helmscolumn, from what I saw in there. But the records showed he was a Helmsman for thousands of years. Can you imagine that? All that time, just with her, and a bunch of frozen slurry samples?”</p><p>“You think it drove him insane? We- aren’t the most stable. Psionics, I mean. Not ones like him and me.” Dirk refrains from pointing out that Captor is sure as shit not stable; he seems a different person now, with the anger starting to drain away. That, and Karkat has been vociferous about explaining to Dirk not to fuck with Captor too much. He’s fairly sure that they have some kind of pale thing going on, but he keeps his nose out of that. He isn’t much one for any kind of moirallegiance. “And when I say him and me, and I mean exactly that. Some trolls get spat out looking and sounding a whole lot like old ones, ages ago. Ancestor shit.” Captor’s gaze is very distant, all of a sudden. “KK’ll tell you the whole story, but probably best not to ask him. That guy’s gonna bring the Vast Expletive Two: Electric Boogaloo on if you start pushing. And <em>I’m </em>sure as fuck not planning on schoolfeeding you anything, DK. But it makes you wonder if we’re supposed to be having their fucking doom, too.”</p><p>Dirk isn’t sure what to say to that. “Humans don’t have that concept, not really, but trust me. I’m starting to buy into it. Although it probably doesn’t count when the template DNA-holders are still around. And as to whether or not he was sane, I-,” he starts, and then has to stop. It still feels wrong to say this. But he knows it’s true. “If it were me, it would have driven me insane. But maybe it was different, because he was a troll, because they were alone.”</p><p>The words feel empty, even as he says them. But he means them, too, even if he knows Captor won’t understand.</p><p>(She couldn’t be bad, all the way down. She couldn’t; she knew how to be kind, she knew how to hold and not hurt. But, Dirk reminds himself, she knew how to hurt too, and she liked it. It’s always been impossible to reconcile the different facets of Mother’s personality- a doting parent, if a bit strict, and then Her Imperious Condescension, no introduction needed. He still doesn’t understand how she can be both. He’s always wanted her to be one.)</p><p>“Jesus, was that pity? Don’t say shit to make me feel better. She’s a fucking monster and we all know it. You know those movies where a small animal gets eaten by a bigger one, and that gets eaten by another, and all that? She’s the last thing with all the tentacles that eats a whole whale.” Captor’s tone is derisive, but uncomfortably so. He appreciates what Dirk’s said so far, he realizes. There is not much he can say to disagree with it, though, so he changes the topic.</p><p>“I think that’s her lusus, actually. Or whatever version of it she’s trying to breed down here,” Dirk adds. “Kind of a shame, whatever the one she’s got is, it’s kind of friendly. But I had to feed it one summer when I was ten, so.”</p><p>“What the fuck,” Sollux says, with feeling. “That’s Orphaner shit.”</p><p>“She’d offed the last violetblood on account of a guppy being able to do better. In her defense, I <em>did</em> do better.” Dirk shrugs slightly. “But the point is, I know where she is on the food chain. And I know where the rest of us are- or at least where she thinks the rest of us are.”</p><p>Captor is quiet, astoundingly, as he digests that. Dirk isn’t really expecting to gain any kind of sympathy; god, that would be too close to pity for him to be comfortable with, but- it’s not entirely bad, to say shit like this.</p><p>“I don’t regret being an asshole to you,” he finally says, which is a complete non sequitur.</p><p>“I didn’t think you would,” Dirk answers, bewildered. “Pretty sure it’s built into your personality. It’s built into mine, I’m just usually more polite about it.”</p><p>Captor eyes him for a second like someone about to ask a question whose answer they simply will not like. “Usually, huh. I don’t think you’d know politeness if it bit you right on the ass but if you talk pretty enough it turns out not to fucking matter, so.”</p><p>Dirk can’t argue with that, either; Captor needs to stop making good points. It’s distressing to deal with.</p><p>“You could probably make the argument that my manners have gotten actively worse after coming here.” Dirk shrugs, as if this slow erosion of the person he used to be is something deliberate and something he enjoys. He can’t say that it’s a bad thing just yet. He can’t say that it’s a good one, either, only that it’s likely more palatable to some of the people he deals with on a daily basis. But Dirk has always been good at framing himself depending on his company.</p><p>“They’re useless as shit anyway,” Captor says. Dirk bites back the words ‘of course a lowblood would think that’, because he’s not going to damage whatever peace they have going on right now. It’s not meant as an insult, exactly, but he knows it’ll sure sound like one.</p><p>“They were useful enough for me before,” Dirk says instead, diplomatic. “No offense, but I don’t expect you to get it.”</p><p>“Why, because I’m a fuckin’ pissblood?” he spits, so quick to offend anyway.</p><p>“No,” Dirk corrects him. He continues on before Captor can keep going, “It’s less highblood/lowblood shit and more- you didn’t exactly have someone shoving it down your throat. Different type of class dynamic, though I’m not saying that it’s still fucked up. The closest analogy is stuffy rich human kids, especially given that my etiquette lessons were likely more human than she would have liked, too. Less geared towards dealing with bluebloods and seadwellers and more towards rubbing elbows with Elon Musk. Ugh.” Dirk’s face arranges itself into a sneer of distaste before he can stop himself, and although he’s quick to smooth it away after, he knows that Captor saw.</p><p>What he also knows is that Captor is wearing a similar expression.</p><p>“See, that’s still a load of bullshit, steaming straight from the ass,” Sollux says, straight-faced. “You were thinking it, I’m not fucking blind yet.”</p><p>“Yet?”</p><p>“Don’t try to change the topic on me here, DK. I know you’re a slippery bastard.” Dirk is not sure what’s happening here, only that he’s- getting lectured and told off? It’s not something he’s ever actually responded well to.</p><p>“If you’re trying to say it still sounds like I’ve got a hemoist stick up my ass, I’m not actually going to disagree with you,” Dirk relents. “There’s no real delicate way to phrase ‘manners are important because she said they were, and so I had to learn them while you got to- I don’t know. FLARP? Be a huge asshole?”</p><p>“Both,” Captor says, with a toothy grin. “Both is good.”</p><p>“Don’t fucking meme at me,” Dirk warns him.</p><p>“I’ll meme at whoever the fuck I want.” But his expression turns contemplative, which is yet another horrifying thing to note. “I didn’t think you’d own to this shit.”</p><p>Now that makes Dirk raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“Most assholes like you have got their heads lodged so firmly up their wastechutes they don’t bother,” Captor drawls out like it’s some victory speech. “It’s a shocker your delicate sensibilities even managed to talk to us at all without fainting or some pansy shit.”</p><p>“First off, I don’t have delicate sensibilities. Trust me when I say that if I had a sensitive stomach, I’d have been cured of that a long time ago by sheer exposure. Second, what, did you think I’d ignore you all and only talk to Kanaya?” Dirk raises an eyebrow at that. “She might actually be the most pleasant alternative, but if you think anyone can successfully ignore Vantas, you’re mistaken.”</p><p>“Heh. He’s my fucking moirail, believe me, I know no one can tune that shouty fucker out,” Captor says. “But yeah. Basically.”</p><p>Dirk has to consider this for a second. “I know that Mother has her distaste for anyone without fins, and it gets worse the warmer their blood is. That being said, it’s hard to formulate the same distaste beyond listening to what she said and, y’know. Absorbing all that like kids are wont to do.”</p><p>“You think?”</p><p>“For one, there’s plenty of humans around still, and we’re not on the hemospectrum at all.” It doesn’t feel good to say this, it feels like poking at a wound with just the barest covering of skin over it, ready to break open at any moment. “I’m not saying this to convince you that I have it worse than you, or anything like that. Because I really did not; I didn’t have to worry about being culled. I knew she didn’t have the resources to make another. But you know her plans, and there’s no room for <em>people</em> in them, not after she’s gotten what she wanted.”</p><p>“And you were still on her side?” Captor doesn’t sound disgusted, which is probably better than Dirk could have hoped for. <em>He</em> feels disgusted- with himself, for the implicit ingratitude, for who he’s sharing this with, for sharing it at all.</p><p>(But part of him isn’t. Part of him thinks that John would probably grin and say it’s about time he stopped being so dumb and secretive. It’s hard, to pry himself open like this and carve out secrets that he’s been carrying for so long that they’re almost indistinguishable from his flesh. Knowing that this is something that John might be proud of doesn’t make it easier, but it makes it hurt just a little less.)</p><p>“How long did it take for you to realize that you didn’t have to power a ship?” Dirk asks instead. “Now imagine that, but if you were surrounded only by people who told you that you would.”</p><p>Captor’s finally quiet as he thinks it over. His brows furrow, and his eyes narrow behind his strange glasses.</p><p>“I’m not saying,” and here’s the worst of it, too, the part that doesn’t stick in his throat like it should, “that she’s right. That I was right. Or that she didn’t do whatever she could to actively fuck everyone else over- or that she’s not still doing that. This has been a fucking learning curve for me.”</p><p>“What I don’t get,” Captor starts, “is why the fuck you decided to come anyway. Sure, you had it all, maybe you were fucking miserable, but it’s not like you thought you were going to be happy here. It’s not like you thought things would be better. You don’t even believe in all this shit, don’t try to convince me otherwise like you’re a two-bit salesman and I’m a housewife troll ready to buy a dust-suction device hot off the press.”</p><p>“I think you’re mixing your metaphors,” Dirk says after a second. “Alternian and human.”</p><p>He’s buying himself time, and he knows that Captor knows it. But Dirk’s said enough, and just because Lalonde looks at him with her awful, knowing eyes doesn’t mean that everyone else knew what it was like. And, well. He doesn’t want it to be a pity thing, even in the most purely platonic way. That’s not why he’s here.</p><p>He’s here because he believed John Egbert when he said he could come. He’s here because a hand was extended and he grabbed onto it, and no matter how much he’s fucked it up, the hand is still there. And he’s still holding on. He can’t say that, though.</p><p>So instead, he decides to be honest, oversimplify it and gloss over the worst. It’s selfish, he’ll admit that freely, but he can’t give the details as to how, either. He can’t say that he’s sick and tired of being <em>less than</em> , of seeing what he’s doing and struggling to believe that it’s the right thing. He’s so fucking tired of other voices in his head and the awful white-static overlaid with <span class="dave"><b>COMPANY VALUES</b></span>  and <span class="dave"><b>THE ETHICS CODE</b></span> and <span class="dave"><b>HOW TO BE A MODEL EMPLOYEE</b></span><sup><span class="dave"><b>TM</b></span> </sup>. This is a truth that doesn’t belong to Sollux Captor.</p><p>So instead he just says, “Dave sucks ass, literally and figuratively, and I decided that this was my best bet to save my own skin. Mr. Egbert was- surprisingly convincing, at being sincere.”</p><p>Captor looks like he wants to say something to that, probably about how Dirk was a moron to believe John in the first place, but that’s a wound that’s scabbed over by now, for all that they haven’t talked about it- he opens his mouth and everything, before obviously changing tack.</p><p>“Well,” Sollux says bracingly, and one bony hand smacks into his back, between his shoulder blades. Christ, it’s the first time that the other has touched him, and neither of them are particularly pleased about it. “You’re a real traitor now after saying all <em>that</em>.”</p><p>Dirk doesn’t bother telling him he’s been once since he smeared John Egbert up against a wall and kissed him instead of turning him in.</p><p>Besides. It’s the closest thing to <em>acceptance</em> he’s going to get from this guy. He’ll take what he’s earned.</p><p>“Thanks,” he says, heavy on the sarcasm. “Means a lot, coming from you.”</p><p>“It better, I don’t go passing out compliments to fucking idiots every day of the week,” Captor tells him, flipping right back to being his usual unbearable self. Dirk is so relieved it’s fucking ridiculous; he doesn’t know how to deal with more sincerity than that.</p><p>“Good thing I’m not an idiot,” Dirk says, and he just gets a sharp bark of a laugh in return.</p><p>“Sure, DK, sure. If that’s what helps you sleep at night. I’d better get going, though, some of us have shit to do that’s not sitting on our flat asses all day long and talking shit the rest of the time.” Captor straightens up, unfurls his skinny frame off the shitty couch, and marches towards the door.</p><p>Well, he’s evidently decided that they’re done here, and Dirk has absolutely no protest with that. He follows to escort him out anyway; it’s polite.</p><p>“Bye,” Dirk tells him, awkward. “Let’s not do this again.”</p><p>“Cute how you think you could stop me from doing this again if I wanted to.”</p><p>“Do you want to?”</p><p>“No. I’m not done getting answers out of you, but fuck no. This was painful.”</p><p>“Did you give Lalonde this much of a hard time when you two met? Because I’m not sure she got grilled about her motivations the same as I did.”</p><p>“I barely talked to her when we first met,” Captor corrects him. “Didn’t like any of the humans, not sure I do now either, but I’m fucking resigned to sticking around. It’s not like I can go anywhere else, either.”</p><p>Dirk nods, slow. “Yeah. A psionic of your caliber…,” he trails off. He doesn’t need to finish the sentence, but it still turns his stomach.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, short. “She’d have me drowning in mind honey and letting my brains melt out my aural clots for a hell of a lightshow to nuke all the sorry suckers who decided to tell her to go fuck herself. So instead I get to choose to let my brains melt out my aural clots for a hell of a lightshow to nuke all the sorry fuckers who decided to tell <em>me</em> to go fuck myself.”</p><p>Dirk is not entirely sure what the point of that is; if you’re going to choose something mindlessly self-destructive anyway, does it matter? But then again, he’s never been the one pulling his trigger.</p><p>“I imagine that’s just about everyone,” he says instead. “I’d rather spend time with Vantas than you, and I’m fairly sure he’s on a campaign to destroy my aural clots.”</p><p>“Maybe if you didn’t talk so much bullshit all the time,” Captor suggests, all false-kindness. This, Dirk’s a lot better at dealing with. “But seriously, he likes you. He wouldn’t be screaming so much if he didn’t. No, don’t look at me like that, you fucking asshole. I mean it. You think I’d reassure you if I wanted to?”</p><p>“I’m not asking you to reassure me,” Dirk says automatically. He might not be an expert on relationships of any kind- at least, not like these. He’d expected everyone to hate him, and they did, and it made sense. John’s different, and so is Roxy, and he doesn’t know what the fuck Lalonde is thinking half the time, but he knows where he stands with each of them. And, more importantly, he can trust that it won’t change, even if in certain cases it’s because he won’t let it.</p><p>The others, though? Them changing their minds wasn’t something he’d banked on. Just because he doesn’t think Karkat’s company is totally unbearable doesn’t mean Vantas has to feel the same about his. It’s actually sort of horrifying that he might.</p><p>“Yeah, but you’re looking at me with the sad insecure eyes like you need it, and you talked about a bunch of shit today, so I’m feeling generous.” Sollux smiles, all teeth. “Might as well take advantage of it.”</p><p>“You need to stop flirting with me,” Dirk tells him, deadpan. Of course, it doesn’t actually work this time, and Captor just flips him off.</p><p>“Whatever,” he says, with a roll of his eyes. “I’m just saying. KK wouldn’t bother screaming at you if he hated you guts. His pump biscuit bleeds for any moron with a tragic backstory, and the more fucked up and emotionally constipated they are, the better. Especially if they’re a jumped up asshole like you.”</p><p>“Explains why he tolerates your annoying ass,” Dirk mutters. Captor just cackles. But he finally starts to amble down the hallway, looking far too satisfied with himself for a conversation that was emotionally draining in ten different ways.</p><p>Dirk settles himself onto the couch once the door is shut and locked behind him, and lets the silence drape itself over him like a shroud.</p><p>It doesn’t feel as terribly lonely as it used to, when he’d do this after a long day at work on a chaise lounge of white leather that’d stain if you so much as looked at it wrong. There’s a spring of some kind somehow digging into his back, and the cushion sags dangerously low underneath him, but despite the whole stressful conversation, despite having said plenty that he shouldn’t, he doesn’t feel like he’s walking on eggshells.</p><p>He thinks, maybe, that this is a good thing.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Dinner and a show? Dinner and a show.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The good thing about settling into some kind of a routine when it comes to their movie nights is, well. It’s a routine, John’s pretty sure. It’s actually become kind of a welcome reprieve, if he’s honest (and yeah, he knows he probably shouldn’t be, when it comes to Dirk, since when was that <em>relaxing</em><span> in the classical sense). It probably has a lot more to do with how </span><em>busy</em><span> Rose has him these days, running all over the place. Karkat’s been gone for two whole weeks, and Roxy’s barely got time to talk, she’s either holed up with Sollux over a few computers, or bothering Dirk about things related to said computers. Which he’s not allowed near, for obvious reasons, but John guesses offering advice about how to find some files is probably fine. Whatever, that’s between Roxy, Dirk, and her mom. And Rose, while still here, is plenty busy with her own plans. She’s always on the phone when she’s not in a meeting, or she’s arranging a book signing to cover for something, or she’s pulling strings of </span><em>some</em><span> kind. Yet to be determined, a part of him is still kind of sour about. </span><span>Sometimes, he wants to talk to her about it, make sure that she’s not overworking herself or anything. He doesn’t, though, and he can’t tell if he’s being a bad friend or respecting her as a leader and understanding that as much as she might want to, she </span><em>can’t</em><span> stop now.</span></p><p>
  <span>Whether or not he feels guilty, like he’s not done enough, is another story. He tucks it away, deep in his chest, because he knows that even if it was true, Rose would say he’s done plenty. He’s brought Dirk to them, after all, even if John still isn’t totally sure he should get the credit for that. He’s not totally sure he </span>
  <em>wants</em>
  <span> the credit for that.</span>
</p><p>But, it’s whatever.</p><p>He still gets to sit down and watch movies awkwardly with his ex, who’s been on the kind of model behavior that should make everyone suspicious, but- John’s seen him, at the meetings. He’s seen him talk to Rose, gradually, open up more and more. Or as much as Dirk ever does. Never as rude as he’s been that first time, but instead of pulling teeth to get information out, it’s more just. Prompting. He’s downright fucking chatty, actually, and John’s not sour about it or anything. Definitely not, when things that<em> he</em> spent ages trying to find out are just being said with zero issues.</p><p>Sollux had even muttered something vaguely approving, like ‘I don’t hate him completely’, which is insane, and definitely not making him think about what Karkat had said about Dirk and being pitch bait. In fact, a lack of hate is a good sign, when it comes to that. John’s learned things.</p><p>
  <span>Besides, it’s hard to really complain when they’ve reached as close to a comfortable equilibrium as they’re going to get. Dirk doesn’t mention what he said, and he doesn’t apologize (because god knows he just doesn’t do that), and John is careful not to bring it up either. If they ignore that, they can manage to spend ages together. John doesn’t even think about how carefully Dirk’ll move out of the way, if there’s less than a foot of space between them on the couch. He definitely doesn’t think about how Dirk has given up bantering like they used to- and it’s fucked up that he kind of misses that, because Dirk </span>
  <em>not</em>
  <span> being a huge asshole is a whole lot easier to deal with. He’s still a regular asshole, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All of that, though, has made it real easy to forget that Dirk, when he wants something, isn’t afraid to lie in wait, bide his time, and then start pushing. And of course he wouldn’t ever ask for anything </span>
  <em>normal</em>
  <span>, no. It’s got to be this.</span>
</p><p>(He wonders if Dirk thinks he’s soft for him. He wonders if he’s been obvious, but- no. He’s pretty sure whatever this weird feeling in his chest is, it hasn’t caused any problems. Not in the least because Dirk doesn’t want to see it, either.)</p><p>“For a prisoner, you’re real demanding,” John says, crossing his arms over his chest.</p><p>“Demanding implies I’m in any position to make demands. This is a request, made to your leader, and one she’s apparently seen fit to grant me. Where you come into it is another story entirely.”</p><p>“Where I come into it-? You asked for access to a kitchen!”</p><p>“False, I asked to be moved to quarters with a kitchen,” Dirk corrects, because he’s still a pedantic bastard. “I don’t care whether or not they’re worse than this, or if it’s just a kitchen, but I refuse to continue eating the complete slop you serve here.”</p><p>John isn’t really sure <em>serve</em><span> is the right word either; they’ve got a semi-public common area for eating, and there’s always stuff around for sandwiches, but it’s not like Rose has a cook or anything. Some of the Carapacians make big old batches of food that’s palatable to, well, pretty much them. And there’s usually plenty of snacks around at the meetings, and Dirk is in almost all of those.</span></p><p>
  <span>Actually, he doesn’t even know </span>
  <em>where</em>
  <span> Dirk is getting his food from. He’s pretty sure the guy sticks to his rooms.</span>
</p><p>“And a kitchen is…going to solve that?”</p><p>Dirk just looks at him like he’s a particularly dense child.</p><p>“Yes,” he says, simply. “I considered asking Roxy, since we’ve been eating dinner together nearly every day now, but.” Dirk shrugs, eloquently. Somehow, John manages to translate this as ‘she lives with Rose in Rose’s house and if I have to ask to use Rose Lalonde’s kitchen, I will die.’</p><p>Although, if Roxy’s been the one eating with him, and like, potentially cooking for him? It’s no wonder that he’s calling it slop. John adores her and all, but Roxy takes a <em>lot</em><span> of culinary inspiration from the Carapacians and, like. Whatever goes on in the first few episodes of Worst Cooks of America, in terms of flavors. It’s better than when she used to drink, though; at least now, Rose doesn’t have to worry about her accidentally setting the kitchen on fire.</span></p><p>No one’s ever worried about Rose setting the kitchen on fire either; as far as John knows, she’s never turned the stove on herself, or used more appliances than the microwave and the fridge. She’s got electric kettles everywhere for tea, too.</p><p>“Okay,” John says, because it’s been too quiet for too long, and he still has no idea why the fuck Dirk wants the kitchen. He’s probably not going to do anything that’ll fuck up the tenuous freedoms he’s allowed (his words, not John’s; John is in fact pretty sure that the only thing stopping Dirk from walking around the place and going outside is himself, he doubts that Rose would outright tell him not to), like try to make a run for it or. Bake someone in the oven.</p><p>“I can cook, you idiot. I’m going to cook,” Dirk finally relents. He sounds impatient.</p><p>Huh.</p><p>“Oh. You know no one is going to eat it, right? Like. That is a thing that will definitely be true.”</p><p>“I’d hope not, because <em>I’m</em> going to eat it, and I don’t share. You see how this works, right?”</p><p>“I know how cooking works,” John snaps out. “God. Fine. I’ll say you aren’t planning anything other than dinner for yourself. And that dinner isn’t a code word for murdering us all with an oven or something.”</p><p>“I lack the raw strength to rip an oven out of the wall and bludgeon you to death with it, I’m afraid, no matter how much I think you might deserve it at times. But really, you shouldn’t underestimate what I can do with a wooden spoon or a whisk,” Dirk says mildly, his hands folded on his lap. “Just let me know who to give my grocery lists to, and where I can find a kitchen. I’m sure you have a communal one somewhere around here.”</p><p>They do, but John’s not just going to say that.</p><p>“No one wants you in the communal kitchen, near their food,” he says instead. And then immediately regrets it. Foot? Meet mouth. God. What is it about Dirk these days that has him making a complete moron of himself?</p><p>(Well. John knows exactly what it is, but he’s ignoring it.)</p><p>There’s no reaction at all, and John isn’t really sure that’s a good thing.</p><p>“Anyway,” he adds, quick. “I’ll- figure something out, I guess? If it’s that important.”</p><p>Shaded eyes regard him and Dirk tilts his head like a cat considering whether or not some poor fucking bird is going to get pounced on.</p><p>“Alright,” he says simply. “I’m guessing you’ll be getting the lists, then? You’d better not skimp.”</p><p>"I won't," John says, and then, "You can use my kitchen, if you want."</p><p>What did he just sign himself up for?</p><p>Dirk blinks, once, before nodding. "Sweet. I was going to have to bother Sollux otherwise- he wouldn't be <em>shopping</em>, but he definitely has a kitchen that has never seen a day of use in its life."</p><p>Ugh, gross. "Definitely use mine," John tells him. "I'll get your groceries tomorrow and you can cook on, Wednesday? And if you don't murder me with a knife or a frying pan or whatever, it can be a regular thing."</p><p>"That's a big if," is all Dirk says in response, way more amused than he should be. "But, sure. Wednesday evening it is. Thanks, bro."</p><p>And- that's it. The gratitude warms John's heart where it shouldn't, enough that it takes him a solid minute after the conversation ends to stop and think to himself: What the <em>fuck</em> did I just sign up for?</p><p>No, he tells himself. It'll be alright. It will.</p><p>-</p><p>It is one hundred percent not going to be alright, is what he realizes on Wednesday itself.</p><p>He really, really wishes that he’d thought this through before bringing it up. Just, even a little.</p><p>Because the grocery shopping was fine, he was just another scruffy tired guy at the chain store picking up the same things everyone else was (and boy, is he relieved there weren’t any demands for caviar or filet mignon or expensive complicated desserts and their ingredients), but coming back to load everything in his fridge, he’d realized that Dirk fucking Crocker is going to cook dinner in his kitchen. And he might have to eat it.</p><p>The realization persists all through the rest of the afternoon, and John does not for the life of him manage to get a single thing done because of it. He can’t even turn it into a joke- his entire brainstorming list for new bits is just terrible drawings of salamanders, and he wishes he could turn <em>that</em> into a skit, too.</p><p>He gives up on writing, so he cleans, and when he’s done cleaning he takes a shower, and then he ends up eating when he’s still antsy afterwards, and it’s not even five yet, so he still has more than an hour to wait for Dirk to actually show up. Roxy’d said she’d bring him, but now John kind of wishes he’d picked the guy up himself. At the time it’d seemed like a good idea not to, sticking in the point that John wasn’t here just for grunt work and kitchen access, but now he’s itching to get out and have something to do, at least.</p><p>John looks around his little living space at the compound, chewing on his lower lip. He’s not worried about what Dirk’s going to expect- it’s definitely nicer than where he’s living now, even if it doesn’t touch the luxurious to the point of decadent set of sprawling apartments he had in the White House, or the probably even more impressive ones he had at home. Even by John’s standards, it’s not amazing; the place he stays at in LA is much better, and so is his dad’s house up in Washington, but Washington’s hasn’t been safe for him for years now, not with the Crocker mansion looming a scant thirty miles away from the suburbs where he grew up. John doesn’t like thinking about that, not really. If he doesn’t look at those streets, he won’t see how they’ve changed, how idyllic suburbia turned into something out of a commercial. He’s not stupid, he knows what all the developments CrockerCorp does under the guise of charity look like, all cookie-cutter box houses in different colors and families smiling too wide, and bright red appliances that don’t go with <em>anything</em>.</p><p>He rubs a hand over his face. This is not helping.</p><p>“Fuck,” he sighs to himself, and the empty room seems to mock him. He needs to get something to do. He’s already cleaned, and more mess has not magically materialized to give him a way to kill time, which seems really unfair, since clutter and entropy always take over quickly otherwise. The universe is just set against him, and he can’t even protest, because he literally brought this on himself. Maybe that’s why he can’t write a joke about this, because he’s the joke, and he’s living it. That seems legit, and also in line with his entire life experience.</p><p>Thankfully, there’s a knock on the door a little later, so he doesn’t have time to reach the bottom of his spiral of ‘what the fuck is this’, which is- probably for the best, he has to admit.</p><p>No, he gets faced with a whole new spiral, because when he opens it, Dirk is there, looking more cautiously excited than John’s ever seen him.</p><p>(He’s definitely not feeling any kind of way about inspiring an obviously positive reaction in Dirk, nope. It’s just a normal feeling, like you’d get if you got a statue to suddenly weep tears of joy, probably.)</p><p>(John’s not willing to acknowledge that he might be a tiny little bit fucked.)</p><p>(Not yet.)</p><p>(This is a process.)</p><p>“Hey,” Dirk says, only stepping inside when John moves to let him. There’s a pause, where he glances at John out of the corner of his eyes; he can see it from just behind his shades. “Thanks for doing this for me. I didn’t tell you earlier.”</p><p>“It’s alright,” John dismisses that easily. “I was going out anyway, and honestly, this is probably the easiest time I’ve ever had shopping for anything? I didn’t need to like, read labels or whatever, I just got whatever was on the list. I kinda thought you’d be asking for, I don’t know. Caviar or some weird speciality shit.”</p><p>“On the first try? That’d be rude,” Dirk answers, with a very faint smirk tugging at his lips. He makes his way to the kitchen. “I can’t bankrupt you on fancy shit just yet, y’know, it’d be bad form. Besides, I don’t really like caviar.”</p><p>“Why not? Is it because your mom’s a fish?” Oh, god. Why does his mouth have to say things like that.</p><p>“...No? I asked you to get fish,” Dirk says slowly. He’s looking at John like he’s an idiot, which is probably fair.</p><p>“Right. It was a joke.”</p><p>“Not a good one. But that’s on brand for you,” he says. Dirk’s clearly in a good mood; his tone is light and almost teasing. It’s better than the more heated insults they used to trade, it doesn’t get under his skin as much. And it’s miles better than the more casual conversation they keep to, because that’s curated, John can tell, even if he doesn’t fully understand why.</p><p>“Rude! I’m letting you use my kitchen and everything for your weird Crocker shit.” He plays along, and it’s easy. “Everything’s in the fridge, by the way. And pots and pans are in the cupboard under there.”</p><p>Dirk bends to peer into the cupboard, and John pointedly does not look. The clatter makes it kind of hard, but hey, he’s determined.</p><p>“There we go. And this is just cooking, not weird Crocker shit. Although Mother taught me, so maybe it is some kind of a family recipe,” he muses. John isn’t really sure if that’s a euphemism for some horrible torture thing, because Dirk does that a lot, turns something mundane into a horrifying fact about Betty. He feels guilty for hoping it is; he doesn’t know how to reconcile what he knows about the Batterwitch with the image of her teaching a younger Dirk how to cook, patiently. Well, maybe not patiently. But taking the time to do it at all.</p><p>“My dad taught me,” he offers in return. “Not everything, just the basics. Some comfort food, and- well. He used to bake a lot, too, but I don’t really like cake.”</p><p>Dirk snorts. He’s pulled out cooking utensils that John honestly can’t say he knew he had, and the counters are looking a lot cleaner than they did before Dirk even got here, gleaming wet.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Your entire vendetta against the Company started because you had a pre-existing grudge against baked goods?”</p><p>“When you put it like that it sounds bad and shallow,” John protests. “And it’s not like Dad ever used the shitty box cake, he believed in making things totally from scratch.”</p><p>“Huh,” Dirk says, and he turns to give John a look. It’s- contemplative, he’s pretty sure, but he doesn’t know why. “You can bake a cake from scratch?”</p><p>“Probably? The recipes he gave me, are, uh. Pretty simple. The more complicated ones he used to use are somewhere else,” he explains. “I haven’t had much time do cook, exactly.”</p><p>“Too busy fomenting rebellion?” Dirk asks.</p><p>“Too busy telling bad jokes,” John corrects with a grin. He’s beyond pleased to see Dirk’s head tilt up ever so slightly, like he’s rolling his eyes hard enough he can’t <em>not</em><span> move with it. </span></p><p>“<span>Of course.” Dirk shakes his head slightly, and falls silent after that- he’s got to concentrate on the cooking, John assumes.</span></p><p>He leans against the counter, and just- watches. Jeez, he should be much more worried about Dirk standing there with a knife, chopping onions with a speed that seems reckless to John. But he isn’t. Dirk has had plenty of chance to hurt him worse, when he held all of the cards. He wouldn’t do it now when he’s got a lot less of them.</p><p>“What are you making, exactly?” John ventures a few minutes later, when there’s actual <em>dough</em><span> being made, for reasons he literally cannot fathom. </span></p><p>“Pasta,” comes the answer.</p><p>“...You can buy that in boxes, though?”</p><p>Dirk sighs, the sound long-suffering.</p><p>“Yes, but I’d like to make some. You don’t have a machine, so I’ll have to roll it by hand. It’ll just take longer.”</p><p>“Huh,” is all John can say. He’s never felt more like a college student- not even when he was a literal college student who was living off shitty ramen and poaching eggs in a mug in the microwave. Or baking potatoes in a microwave. His dad had made sure he knew how to use a microwave, at least.</p><p>Dirk seems pretty content to not talk during this, which is surprising; normally, John can’t get the guy to shut up. It saves him the trouble of figuring out how to make conversation (and apparently not banter or be sarcastic like they used to, or at least not too much), but it also causes him the trouble of not knowing what to do with himself. Sure, he doubts Dirk is going to go on some insane murder spree through the place, but he can’t just leave him unattended.</p><p>So he watches instead. Deft fingers shape the dough, knead it, and then set it aside. The sauce smells- really good, actually, and John wanders over to look at it.</p><p>“Stop it,” Dirk says sharply. He’s on the actual other side of the kitchen, looking into the fridge to get at the fish. John makes a face in his direction.</p><p>“I wasn’t even doing anything,” he says. “No need to be so touchy.”</p><p>“You were about to do something,” Dirk corrects. “And I’m telling you not to. I told you that you could get whatever, but just because I can eat it doesn’t mean you can.”</p><p>“I’m not allergic to onions!”</p><p>“Shallots.”</p><p>“Oblong onions?”</p><p>“...Christ. They taste different, they’re a bit sweeter. And they won’t make you cry,” Dirk adds.</p><p>“Good enough reason to use them instead, if you ask me,” John shrugs. “But has an onion ever made you cry before?”</p><p>“My tear ducts have been surgically melted shut.” Dirk says this so matter-of-factly that John can’t for the life of him tell if this is a joke or not. Like, sure, it’s exactly the kind of awful thing that would go down, but Dirk’s also the type of person to use that knowledge to make a bad joke and stress John out about it.</p><p>“Are they-?”</p><p>“No,” he clarifies, with a long-suffering sigh. “It was a joke. You really need to get better at identifying those.”</p><p>“Listen, you were talking about my brand or whatever earlier, and gallows humor is not a big part of it,” John protests. The shallots get dumped into the pan, and it starts to sizzle. It smells pretty good already, and nothing’s even happened yet.</p><p>“Don’t you? I remember-,” Dirk breaks off, catching himself. “No, I guess not. Kind of a surprise you’re not morbid, though.”</p><p>John tries not to feel oddly disappointed by the sudden shift. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“Well. Look who’s around. Lalonde, who has never once been a ray of sunshine. Karkat, who would probably strangle a happy, light mood with his bare hands if it came near him. Captor, which. Enough said, just look at him. And Kanaya’s not exactly all smiles. The only bubbly person around is Roxy.” He’s counted off all of this on his fingers, the knife waving around, and forget what Dirk’s not remembering, John is having a reaction to this that he really shouldn’t be. There’s bits of garlic on it, for fuck’s sake, it’s nowhere near him. He definitely has no room to be thinking about how many times Dirk’s had him pinned with the threat of a blade somewhere. Or the times he’s had Dirk pinned. The threat of a blade was still there, it’s like he’d never been without one somewhere on his body.</p><p>“Yeah,” John says, vaguely.</p><p>“Wow. What a detailed answer. I forgot what a talented conversationalist you were,” Dirk says, dry.</p><p>“I forgot what an asshole <em>you</em> were,” John shoots back. It’s automatic, and he doesn’t think about it too hard, but he can actually see Dirk pause for just a second. Jeez, <em>he’s </em>definitely thinking too hard about it.</p><p>“How did you manage that? I endeavor to remind everyone about it whenever possible,” he finally says, and John relaxes slightly. Okay. It’s- okay. It’s not the response he might have gotten before, it’s not as confrontational, but it’s still good. It’s not Dirk stabbing him or fleeing the room or ignoring him.</p><p>“Okay, fine, maybe just how big of an asshole you can be to <em>me</em>, directly,” John relents. “But that’s fine, I think? Like, you’ve got way more people to really work at being a dick to. Which is pretty much everyone except Roxy.”</p><p>“Lalonde is proving a hard nut to crack. The older one, that is,” Dirk clarifies, like he even needs to.</p><p>“You can say her name, you know.”</p><p>The knife comes down with a little more force than necessary. Yikes. Poor garlic.</p><p>“I can, but it bothers her when I call her by her last name only,” he says. “And I’m not going to call her <em>sister</em>, either. Maybe ‘elder sister’, if I really want to go for it, but the cons outweigh the pros. She might like it.”</p><p>John is pretty sure that Rose would be fairly happy if Dirk showed any kind of inclination towards accepting that they’re related. Okay, no, that’s not fair. He’s definitely accepted it- John gets the feeling that he probably figured it out a while before anyone other than Rose knew- but he doesn’t act like it.</p><p>“She’ll have you sat at a table for a family dinner faster than you can blink, yeah,” John agrees, just to see Dirk react. He doesn’t disappoint; his fingers clench tighter around the knife, his grip almost white-knuckled. But his face- he doesn’t grimace, or let a flicker of disgust even cross it.</p><p>No, instead it’s just cold and blank, and it’s not an expression that John’s seen on him in a while. Not like this, anyway.</p><p>“...Dirk?”</p><p>And just like that, it’s gone almost as soon as he speaks. John still doesn’t know what he said.</p><p>“I have eighty-four different excuses prepared if Roxy tries to invite me to one of those,” Dirk says. His voice is carefully even, but he’s- fine? God. Why is this so complicated? Since when does John <em>notice</em> so many things about him? He could go back to living in ignorance of Dirk’s moods, probably. It’d be less stressful.</p><p>(But he won’t; he can’t. He doesn’t want to argue like they did after the trial again, he doesn’t want to be taken so much by surprise, he doesn’t want Dirk to be right, for calling him selfish or saying he’s got his head up his own ass, if it happens. Realistically, when it happens.)</p><p>“That seems like a lot for someone who doesn’t do anything that isn’t scheduled,” John tells him. “Like, what are these? Oh, I have to sleep. Oh, I’m busy getting yelled at by Karkat? Because I hate to break it to you, but neither of those’ll work on her.”</p><p>“Well. A lot of them are different species of food poisoning.” John has to stifle a snort.</p><p>“You can get food poisoning?”</p><p>“She doesn’t know that I can’t.”</p><p>“I feel like Rose will, just saying.”</p><p>The garlic sizzles up as Dirk adds it to the pot, and it somehow manages to smell better.</p><p>“Lalonde won’t say anything about it,” he says. He sounds kind of smug. “She’s not that direct about what she wants, and if I say no, it’ll probably turn into some weird fucking game where she escalates reasons to use Roxy to get me to attend, and I escalate on the excuses. It’s not dignified, but it’s not like I have any dignity left, so she should know it’s a losing battle.”</p><p>“That’s...weirdly intense,” is all John manages, because what the fuck. “I mean, you’re probably not wrong, she’s really persistent and you literally cannot resist escalating anything, but isn’t that sort of. Pitch?”</p><p>“...You get points for trying to listen and understand, at least. But no, it’s not.” Dirk pushes around the stuff in the pan for a moment, and then starts chopping some herbs. These are actually fresh from their little greenhouse; John wasn’t going to bother buying shitty stuff in the supermarket when this was literally right here. It smells bright and green, like how it used to when his dad would cook sometimes, like it does in the greenhouse itself. His fingers probably still smell a bit like rosemary.</p><p>“What, you’re not going to elaborate on that?”</p><p>“No,” is the answer, and. Okay, well. That kills a conversation real fast. But Dirk’s adding the herbs, and then the fish into the pan, and it sizzles loudly, satisfyingly, and the fan above the stove is turned on. So John tells himself that it’s because it’s too loud to talk, and that t’s because Dirk needs to focus.</p><p>“Do you still want help?” he offers, after a solid five minutes of feeling totally useless and watching Dirk start to work the dough.</p><p>“I’ve mistimed this,” he says, succinct. John nods like he agrees or even knows what Dirk’s talking about. “But, no. It’s fine, I just need to roll and slice it, and- no offense, but I wouldn’t trust you to boil pasta, let alone do what comes before the boiling.”</p><p>“You’re the one who’s making pasta hard,” John says, and then immediately regrets it. Dirk just shoots him a sly expression, the one that only implies <em>that’s not the only thing that I can make hard</em>, without actually saying it. Maybe the whole avoidance of their past deal isn’t that bad, because it saves him from having to deal with Dirk saying that. He wouldn’t be able to survive it.</p><p>“It’s easy,” Dirk tells him. “Just watch, I already made all the dough, so now it’s just to roll it.”</p><p>
  <em>Just to roll it</em>
  <span> seems like a real understatement to John once Dirk actually does start rolling. And rolling. And rolling. Literally, he only stops to scoop the fish and most of the stuff in the pan out. </span>
  <span>All the solid stuff, anyway, and then he adds a bunch of things- more onions? Garlic? Butter, and the cheap wine, which John didn’t even think was going to go in the food- and just lets it simmer. </span>
  <span>Whatever. It smells good, and John really, really wishes he could eat some, but nope. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>H</span>
  <span>e falls quiet as Dirk keeps rolling it out, and then slicing out thick noodles from the dough, when he’s ready. It still seems like a </span>
  <em>lot </em>
  <span>of effort to go to for one dinner’s worth, but then again, since when has Dirk </span>
  <em>not</em>
  <span> been this extra?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John still feels a little bit pathetic reheating his own dinner in the microwave. It’s not a </span>
  <em>bad</em>
  <span> dinner, and it smells fine too, but it’s still just reheated takeout that he’d gotten while he was out running the errands. Whatever, he’s going to sit here and enjoy his tofu, and it’s going to be fucking great.</span>
</p><p>He’s at the table before Dirk, but he was raised right, so he doesn’t even start eating without him. He’d even set it and stuff before, trying desperately to tell himself that this wasn’t a date. Well, future him is here, and it sure does feel like one, which he tries to ignore.</p><p>“Bone atrophy,” he tries, lifting his bottle of water in a toast. Dirk does the same, except with a can of soda.</p><p>“I’m immune,” Dirk answers, deadpan, but he lightly knocks their drinks together anyway. He’s quick to tuck in, and John takes a second to just watch him. He’s never seen Dirk actually eat before- okay, obviously he needs to, but he’s as fussy about it as John might’ve expected. He looks like he knows what every single fork at a fancy table setting would be for, whereas John only knows it’s from the outside in. Of course, John still has the reflexive urge to slap the food out of his hands and insist that he eat something safe, because this is literally the normal grocery store fare- Company-owned, that is, but most of them are these days- and not the expensive kind, either.</p><p>Still, he figures it’s time he can just ask the question that’s been bothering him this whole evening.</p><p>“You can’t just- eat that, though?” John finally asks, and- this is maybe not the ideal phrasing, but it’s not like Dirk expects him to be charismatic or eloquent or anything. The issue is more that he doesn’t seem to get the question- and, more to the point, he’s already lifting the fish to his mouth.</p><p>“And…why is that?”</p><p>“It’s- it’s toxic? Okay, I know I didn’t say that properly,” he says, hasty. “But I don’t get how you can just. Eat it.”</p><p>“It’s toxic to <em>you</em>,” Dirk says, sighing a little. “Unless you went and poisoned it, and I suppose with your leader being who she is, you could manage perfectly fine to find or concoct something that I’m not immune to.”</p><p>This is a joke, John knows, but he still bristles at it.</p><p>“No, I mean, they’re- the oceans! She fucked the oceans up, you can’t eat it, it had four eyes.”</p><p>“Oh, well. One, it’s meant to. Two, I’ve eaten eyes before, the number of them doesn’t really matter. And this is filleted. Three, get an aquarium to properly breed fish for eating if you’re so concerned about it. Honestly, if you’re this terrified of all the animals, it’s no wonder you only eat porridge and vegetables.”</p><p>“I’m not eating porridge and vegetables <span>now,” John points emphatically at his own plate. And also takes a bite, chews and swallows before he continues. “</span><span>It’s</span> called being careful, she’s already gone after the <em>water</em> supply, we know there’s all <em>sorts</em><span> of things in the food too that could kill you-,”</span></p><p>“It could kill if I ate more than is humanly possible. Because- and I’m sure I’ve informed someone else of this already, so you need to be better at sharing your information- the animals are meant to either be lusii or feed lusii, and lusii are not something that can reasonably be toxic by the time she’s finished terraforming because they’re essential to the terraforming and to the colony she plans on establishing. And for obvious reasons she’s reluctant to engineer them too much; I gather that previous experiments of that kind failed badly. Those whose nurturing instinct were preserved still accidentally killed their charges through simple exposure to the compounds. And with human and troll metabolism fairly similar, it is difficult to find something that will kill one and not the other. Hence, the fish is mostly safe, and if it weren’t for you, it would be for me, as she grows everything on a smaller scale to test it before any are released.”</p><p>John isn’t sure what to make of that explanation, but he’s not entirely sure it’s...correct.</p><p>“Of course,” Dirk continues, “if you’re talking about enhancements to the certain addictive nature of some foods or specific sugary items, then. Yeah. That shit is chock-full of things that’ll rot your brains. But that’s Gushers and its associated products, not necessarily, uh. Fish. These mostly have environmental toxins.”</p><p>Oh, there it is. John nods along, mulling that over. <span>He’s not a chemist, and if Dirk has weird engineered metabolism or whatever to deal with this? He can’t really hold it against him, but it’s just another reminder of how different they are. </span></p><p>“Is that what you mean, when you say that you’re hard to poison?” John asks.</p><p>“I tolerate toxins fairly well, yes,” Dirk says after a moment, like he’s choosing each word carefully. “I suspect Lalonde does too, though she’s likely to have a wider range that won’t hurt her than I do. She’s been alive longer, and ergo exposed to more. Or exposed herself.”</p><p>“Exposed herself,” John says, faintly. Rose isn’t suicidal, and the disbelief in his face has to show, because Dirk is sighing deeply.</p><p>“Yes. Have you ever heard of mithridatism?”</p><p>John just looks at him blankly. “No. That doesn’t even sound like a real word.”</p><p>“It comes from the name of a king, Mithridates IV. He’d regularly ingest very small doses of poisons to build up an immunity, since he was terrified of being poisoned. The same principle applies here- have small, non-lethal doses, and eventually you’ll build up a tolerance, and you can slowly increase the dosage as you do. Of course, it only works for biologically-based compounds that require the immune system to work, and it’s hardly an exact science, but our genetics tends to take care of the rest, especially when it comes to heavy metals and the like.” Crocker rattles that off between small, neat bites of his food, and he hums in satisfaction when the plate is clear.</p><p>He’s still thinking a little about Dirk doesn’t need to be as careful about what he eats. Because, well. He’s one of the first people it got tested on, isn’t he? That’s what he’s saying, between the lines, and John isn’t sure he likes how blasé he is about it. Like that’s normal. But if you’re immune, to some level, maybe it is.</p><p>It’d be useful if that kind of thing could be done with <em>them</em>, but if Rose hasn’t put it into place, he’s pretty sure that it’s not possible. And not everyone wants to eat actual poison and be sick and miserable and not even have it really work.</p><p>If they’re lucky, though. If they do everything right. That won’t need to be an option.</p><p>“How do you even know all of that?” John asks instead of dwelling on that vague, not-so-impossible hope.</p><p>“I read, Mr. Egbert,” he says, darkly amused. “It’s not a difficult thing to do.”</p><p>“Yeah, but- why are you even interested in old kings who used to poison themselves?”</p><p>“King John of England died of dysentery in a swamp while consuming a surfeit of peaches. Three pounds, I think,” Dirk adds.</p><p>“That’s not an answer to my- how does someone eat three pounds of peaches while dying?”</p><p>“He really liked peaches?” He sounds dubious, though.</p><p>“Do you not like them?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t want to stuff myself with three pounds of them while simultaneously shitting myself, but that’s just common sense. It’s not even the most ridiculous even to have happened in European history. There were three separate Defenestrations of Prague, that’s insane by modern standards, but it was much more common back then. Apparently throwing clergymen out of a window so they can claim they survived by miracle when really they landed in a cartful of shit was effective in launching off thirty years of war. Anecdotally, of course.” He pauses, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s a good thing Dave has never been able to obtain a cartful of shit.”</p><p>John has no idea what he’s meant to say to any of that, so he just nods in agreement. It’s only the second time that Dirk’s mentioned his brother, and the memory of the first is enough to make him frown. And it’s rare for Dirk to be this talkative, too, and- John’s not wrong, or selfish, for wanting to draw that out. It’s not like it was before, but that’s fine. It’s better.</p><p>“What’s with that face, Mr. Egbert?” he asks, because of course he’s noticed it. It’s Dirk. He’s never not noticed something when it’s convenient for John. “You’re acting as if you’ve never had dinner with an ex before.”</p><p>“Fuck you, I have,” John grumbles. “Except she didn’t talk about poison the whole time. Okay, fine, she might have been the <em>type</em><span> to talk about it, but still.”</span></p><p>There’s a distinct pause.</p><p>“What?” John asks, defensive now. “Did you think I’d been like, single and celibate before you?”</p><p>“What? No.” The way Dirk says it kind of makes him think that the answer is actually yes.</p><p>“<span>God, why does everyone think I don’t fuck! I do! I can totally fuck!” John gestures widely in exasperation. Dirk’s </span><span>blank expression is not making him feel any better about this. </span></p><p>“<span>You dating is less difficult to conceptualize than you fucking,” Dirk finally says. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards, just a little bit. God, he’s such a dick.</span></p><p>“Shut up and eat your dinner.”</p><p>“Are you going to tell me about your ex, if I do?” This is delivered very blandly and innocently, so of course John doesn’t trust it.</p><p>“Do you want to know about her?”</p><p>“Kind of.”</p><p>“Okay, but why? You’re not-,”</p><p>“No,” Dirk cuts him off before he can finish that sentence. Behind his shades, John can’t tell what his eyes are doing, but he still feels pinned in place by a glare. “Don’t finish that sentence. I’m just curious. You didn’t seem particularly- experienced. When we first started our trysts.”</p><p>“<span>You don’t have to call them </span><em>that</em><span>, you know,” John sighs. “And- wait, are you saying I was bad at them?”</span></p><p>“You’re a quick study,” he says, which is neither here nor there and is definitely Dirk fucking with him. Because John knows he’d liked it. There wouldn’t have been a second time if he didn’t like it enough to want more. Suck on that, Dirk.</p><p>Wait, no. There was sucking involved too, and ugh, John’s not going to think about that. They’re not- doing that, anymore. It’s off the table. It’s so far off the table it got jettisoned into space or something. He needs to get it together.</p><p>“Gee, thanks,” he says. “But, I guess I wasn’t? I hadn’t been with that many guys before. Just like, two. And it didn’t go very far.”</p><p>“Oh,” Dirk says. He looks like he’s thinking that one over. “That actually makes sense. Me neither, by the way. Just so we’re on the same page.”</p><p>“Oh,” John echoes. “Then, I was-?”</p><p>“Don’t let the fact that you’re the only one to have done certain things to me go to your head, Mr. Egbert. Or don’t let it distract from the fact that we’re still going to talk about your ex, because I’m still curious.” Dirk waves his fork at John. There’s a green bean stuck to it, it looks ridiculous. He resists the urge to just, bite it off.</p><p>“Okay, sure, but why?”</p><p>“Hm. Wouldn’t you want to know about my exes, if I had them?” he asks. “The closest thing I had was a horrible crush on someone, but he was never a viable candidate. Besides. It wouldn’t have worked.”</p><p>“How do you know that?” Dirk just raises an eyebrow in response. Okay, that’s fair. Dumb question. “...Right. Wait. Were you like- expected to, y’know. Get married?”</p><p>This somehow actually works as a distraction. Dirk’s clearly thinking it over. “Maybe. Mother was quite interested in my quadrants, but she hadn’t suggested any potential partners. So the best answer is- not yet. I suppose she wouldn’t have wanted me distracted. Which,” Dirk adds, with a cutting smile, “happened anyway, more disastrously than she might’ve imagined. God, maybe she really should have married me off for some kind of political alliance, and then we could’ve been miserable together and then died of fucking, tetanus or something.”</p><p>“I don’t think tetanus alone could kill you,” John says. His mouth is on autopilot. Despite the fact that he literally brought this on himself, he really doesn’t want to think of the actual reality that Dirk might’ve been married off to someone, and that they mightn’t have met. It was a lot closer than he’d thought.</p><p>Also, it’s really hard to picture Dirk married at all. He barely wears any jewellery (and no, the fucking tiara doesn’t count, not when he hates it and not when it’s completely evil), but John guesses he could have a ring on under his gloves. Seems uncomfortable, but like, less weird than having one on <em>over</em> them.</p><p>“No, probably not. Dave was around, so I had to keep up on all my shots,” Dirk answers, effectively breaking John out of any dumb tangents his brain wanted to wander down. “He’s a wonder for the medical sciences, bro.”</p><p>“He’s something alright,” John mutters darkly. Dirk snorts, quiet. He figures that’s as close as he’ll get to real agreement. “But, ugh. I don’t want to think about that dick.”</p><p>“Don’t tell him that, he’ll manifest here from whatever acid trip he’s on now and whip it out,” Dirk says. He’s more caustic than usual, and John’s- not exactly shocked, because he knows that Dirk can be plenty cruel when he wants to, but he’s surprised that it’s directed to his brother. The two of them have been a pretty much unbreakable wall, the cornerstone of the whole operation. John had always kind of assumed that they were close.</p><p>“But,” Dirk continues. “I don’t want to talk about him, either. Not unless anyone asks me to, and that’s <span>business, so you’re not going to ask. Now back to your ex, though you get four out of five hats on the distraction technique.”</span></p><p>That’s an order, right there, and it’s so coolly delivered that John almost doesn’t even bristle at it. Oh, man. He needs to get his shit together when it comes to Dirk telling him what to do.</p><p>“It wasn’t a deliberate distraction technique,” he tries. “But fine, bluh. I still don’t really get why you want to know about her so bad, it was ages before I even met you. I was like, just barely part of this whole deal. I’d met Rose, yeah, and Karkat, so I knew that there were trolls on our side too, even if I hadn’t really gotten used to thinking of them as like, the enemy at all so much as just kind of weirdly dedicated to the boxed cake.” He pauses, and then adds, for insurance: “And he definitely didn’t surprise me or anything when we first met.”</p><p>“Right,” Dirk drawls out. “You’ve never been surprised in your life.” He’s such a condescending dickhead sometimes. John flips him off.</p><p>“Do you want to hear the story or not?”</p><p>“Okay, okay. Fine, I do. Keep going. I’ll be quiet, the picture of a good audience. Active listening skills and all, but I’ll be good and save my questions to the end and only ask them when you call on me,” he deadpans.</p><p>“Thank you,” John says, as primly as he can manage. It’s not that much; he’s not that great at being snooty when he’s not working. “Anyway. I met her a little bit after that? She was- okay, she wasn’t friends with Karkat, and I think they actually kind of hate each other? Or, no one really liked her that much. But I thought she was super cool and badass, and we were both kind of the odd person out at the time. Me because I was new, her because she didn’t really get along well with people. She’s better at it now, but. Iunno. It’s still kind of weird to deal with because she’s not on good terms with everyone else.”</p><p>“Is that why she’s not here?” Dirk asks.</p><p>“Sort of? It’s not like- she can’t get along with people or anything. It’s more that she has a really specific way of wanting to do things, and that kind of rubs people the wrong way. She didn’t, uh. Didn’t really care too much about collateral damage, you know? So there was a bunch of fighting, and I think some relationship drama between her and Rose and Kanaya that I didn’t really get and probably don’t want to.” John rubs at the back of his neck, awkward. He hates telling this part. “But we were fine, I’d thought. She was the first person I’d ever really dated, and, uh. Okay, maybe corporate espionage and spying on things weren’t great dates. And we definitely weren’t supposed to be going on those missions anyway, by the way. Rose’d always get mad at her about it, but she’d just say that it was getting results, wasn’t it?”</p><p>Dirk hums, quiet. “I can understand that line of thinking, yeah. But it’s not exactly one that works if the people around you disagree. If you’re going to be ruthless that way, you all need to commit to it.”</p><p>“<span>Fucked up to say, but probably right. So things were tense, because she looked like she might try to- be in charge, more and more. No one could ever say she didn’t know what she wanted,” </span><span>John says, and it doesn’t come out bitter at all, and he’s proud of that. </span></p><p>“<span>I take it that you’re fine with her now?” </span></p><p>“<span>I am, yeah. It- I mean, I don’t really </span><em><span>like</span></em><span> holding grudges,” John admits. “Maybe I should actually hate her or something, I don’t know. I definitely don’t want to hang out with her one on one for super long, or have her like. In charge of any missions that I’m doing.”</span></p><p>“Well, I’d make the case that you’re too forgiving by far, but it seems that plenty of you people are,” Dirk says, with studied casualness. “And I can’t complain either, since I’m benefiting from it.”</p><p>John doesn’t exactly know why, but that makes him feel a bit warm in the chest. It’s probably as close as he’s going to get to hearing Dirk say that this is a good thing, that he likes spending time together this way.</p><p>
  <span>Sure, it’s weird, but it’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>“I don’t mind talking about what actually went down, y’know,” he says, after a second. “If you were wondering.”</p><p>“I was, kind of. No offense, but you don’t exactly seem like the type of person to end a relationship.” Okay, ouch. But also probably fair.</p><p>“<span>Oh, man. That’s the worst thing, is that she ended it? She said I was making way too big of a deal about the whole deal and not taking her side and like. Obviously I wasn’t going to take her side? I literally almost </span><em><span>died</span></em><span>, and the whole thing was a mess, and- bluh.” John huffs out a breath. He doesn’t like being mad about this, he doesn’t like that he </span><em><span>still is</span></em><span>, if he thinks about it too long. But it’s the kind of mad you get about past mistakes, and it’s not directed at anyone, really, so he figures it’s okay. He knows better now. That’s the important thing. </span></p><p>“You nearly died?” Dirk’s voice is flat, carefully so.</p><p>“Oh. Uh, yeah. It was messy. She’d decided to, y’know. Stake out one of the Drone factories to see what was going on, I think she had this idea of capturing one to have someone here take it apart- or at least that’s what she said at the time. It, uh. Came out later that she was there looking for plans, too, which would’ve been fine except we weren’t supposed to be there, and the plans weren’t for Drones, but for ships.” John’s quiet, for a second. “I don’t know what went down, on their way over here, only that it was bad shit and that Karkat kind of blames her for it still. But I get wanting to go home, you know? And I’d have still wanted to help her if she told me the truth, but instead she just hung me out to dry and then said afterwards that I should’ve been better about dodging. Like, okay, go off, but I’m not the one with a robot arm and one eye.”</p><p>Dirk’s brows furrow for a second, and he looks like he’s about to ask a question, before he changes course. “That’s still shitty of her, though.”</p><p>“I’m not saying it wasn’t,” John sighs. “I honestly think everyone was more upset about it than I was.”</p><p>“Might’ve been the meds you were on. I’m assuming that’s the scar on your side?” Dirk’s eyes slide down to his left side, right over his shirt, and John’s reminded viscerally of just how well Dirk Crocker really knows his body.</p><p>“<span>It wasn’t the meds! I don’t think I really </span><em><span>got</span></em><span> how bad it was until after I’d recovered, and then she’d basically decided to go, and she texted me afterwards to call her back when I was done being lame. Which was also kind of a dick move, but also we weren’t exactly the most romantic couple around, so it’s also kinda hard to be really heartbroken about that,” John shrugs. “And I’m over it now, so.”</span></p><p>“She’s not here often, then?” Still in that flat tone, and- okay. John still doesn’t really know what it means. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything.</p><p>“<span>Nah, she’s off doing other stuff. Whatever it was that went down with me made Rose flip out, from what Kanaya said? So, uh. I’m not super sure </span><em><span>how</span></em><span> it happened, but they reached some weird agreement where Vriska does mostly what she wants while also doing what Rose tells her to, except Rose doesn’t ask too much because she’s pretty flighty, and Vriska passes on any relevant intel she finds. It’s actually worked out pretty well, she sends me pictures of the cool shit she finds sometimes.” He trails off after that; the story’s not really that involved, and Dirk is still not giving him any real reaction.</span></p><p>“Okay,” Dirk finally says. “Thanks for telling me. I had a crush on Jake English for a bit, we met like twice at a gala, and that was pretty much it. Nothing sordid there. If I hadn’t been so busy, maybe I’d have actually pursued him. But Mother wouldn’t have approved anyway, so it’d still have been a moot point.”</p><p>John decides that he’s never going to look at any of those nature conservation shows Jake is on again.</p><p>For unrelated reasons, of course. They’re good shows, and they raise a different kind of awareness, and Jake’s good at publicity, but John’s not really a documentary kind of guy beyond passively absorbing David Attenborough saying ‘slow-th.’</p><p>“Hey,” he says, after a second’s delay. Dirk’s statement raises other questions, obviously. “You said that she wouldn’t have approved of him, but, like. She wouldn’t have approved of me, either, right? I mean, you never told her anything.”</p><p>Dirk’s quiet, as he digests that.</p><p>Nothing is really happening facially, but that just makes him worry more. Has he crossed some unspoken line, stuck his foot into one of those lasers and triggered an internal alarm and complete lockdown? They haven’t really talked about what they were, not even in passing, and Dirk hasn’t really tried to banter with him like they used to- no, the closest that John gets is Dirk shitting on his movie taste, and that barely counts.</p><p>“I didn’t tell her,” is what he finally answers with. “But I wanted to. It’s- well, the whole fated enemies thing was terribly romantic, and it’s hard to dispute that we weren’t equals in some way. It’s equally hard to dispute that you challenged me just like you were supposed to do. On paper, it was great.</p><p>“But. I don’t know how she would’ve reacted. I would have had to play it as trying to convince you over to our side, and even then, she’d have expected results. She’d have expected it have worked already. And-,” Dirk pauses for a second. His fingers clench tight around his fork, his grip is almost white-knuckled. “And I liked having something that was just mine, too, I think. Something she didn’t know about. Something she and Dave couldn’t get their hands on. You were mine, and mine alone.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>The heat in John’s face has nothing to do with the temperature of the room.</p><p>Dirk clears his throat and continues on, casual, “Anyway, it’s bad form to betray your kismesis like that. And you can’t have power that’s so imbalanced, either, it doesn’t work as it’s meant to.”</p><p>Oh, god.</p><p>They’re talking about it, for real, and John’s maybe wanted this but he doesn’t know what to say, either.</p><p>“I’m- I mean. I get a lot of it better <em>now</em> than I did back then,” he starts, but it’s too clumsy, it’s not right.</p><p>“By dint of actually being aware of it?” Dirk offers. It sounds snide. John doesn’t think it’s meant to hurt, even though it does.</p><p>“If I’d have known, I probably would’ve planned out more,” John admits. “But, no, just not just because I can put a name to whatever square we were in.”</p><p>Dirk is quiet for a moment.</p><p>“I know,” he says. “It’s just a label, in the end, and it’s one that fits even though it wasn’t real.”</p><p>“It was,” John tells him, immediately, thoughtlessly. And then there’s nowhere to go but forwards. “It was real. Looking back, it’s, uh. Kind of convenient to have a name to put to all those feelings. And what you said...makes a lot of sense. After the trial, I mean.”</p><p>A flicker crosses Dirk’s face, and he glances down at the table. It’s the closest to a gesture of defeat that he’s seen on him. John’s struck that this is happening here, now, instead of a thousand times earlier when he was smaller, stripped down, but never less than he’d presented himself as.</p><p>“I shouldn’t have said those things, though,” Dirk says. “Or- they needed to be said, but it could have been done...kinder. No matter the understanding of blackrom that you had or didn’t have then, it could’ve been kinder. So. I’m sorry. For that.”</p><p>The apology hangs in the air between them, steals the breath from John’s lungs.</p><p>“Would you still have asked me to come with you, if you’d known?” he continues, and John realizes that he needs to actually answer this.</p><p>“It could’ve been,” he agrees, quiet. “But- I still would have, I think. Maybe for a different reason, maybe it’d have been more caught up in winning or the competition part of it? But I don’t know if you’d have come, if it had been like that. I mean, if you thought I was really tricking you into it, if I <em>was</em> actually trying to do it.”</p><p>“I might have,” Dirk admits. “Although you’re right in that it would have gone differently. Your delivery was...very sincere, let’s say, and that’s what made it stick in my head. You know, I actually thought you’d pulled a long con over on me?”</p><p>“You did kind of mention it,” John tells him. “And, I mean. I’m not that good a liar, but even if I was. I wouldn’t lie about something like that. That’s- that was real, too. We didn’t lie to each other.”</p><p>Dirk nods, just once, and lets out a slow breath. John fights the urge to reach across the table and grab his hand and squeeze, just to ground him and keep him here. He looks a million miles away.</p><p>“I guess not. You really are a good person, huh,” Dirk finally says, with a bitter twist to his mouth. John freezes, his fork halfway to his mouth.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“What?” Dirk asks. It’s not mocking. John slowly puts his fork down.</p><p>“What you just said. I’m suddenly, like. A good person?” John doesn’t want to be angry about this, or upset, but he can’t help it. He is. He is, and they were doing just fine talking about things, or around them, and Dirk’s apologized, so he shouldn’t be angry anyway, but-</p><p>“You know how shitty it was to hear <em>you</em> say that I wasn’t?” he blurts out. “Because it was. You were so ready to believe the worst about me, which made no sense, especially since it’s not like <em>I</em> was the villain in that whole deal.”</p><p>Something ices over in Dirk’s expression. But John’s kind of done walking on eggshells around him, at least like this.</p><p>“I just explained why I was ready to believe the worst of you,” he says, cold. Dirk hasn’t sounded like that in front of him for a long, long time. “It’s not my fault you’re being too dense to understand.”</p><p>“Bluh, you know what? You should’ve left the apology or whatever as it was. I’m taking back my accepting it.” John’s gripping his fork too tightly, he realizes distantly, and he uncurls his fist. It drops to the plate with a too-loud clatter.</p><p>“Fine,” Dirk says, and this is somehow even more infuriating, how he’s just accepting it. How he’s just- listening. It throws John off-balance, like it has been for ages; he’s not used to Dirk being a mediator, he’s used to Dirk as the instigator, Dirk always having something to say just so John could shut him up.</p><p>And that’s not happening.</p><p>And it’s not going to happen again.</p><p>That deflates John more than he might want to admit, and he heaves out a breath.</p><p>“Sorry,” he says. It falls into the chasm between them, bye, see you never. “That’s not- ugh. I appreciated your apology, and it meant a lot, it just. I don’t know.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Dirk repeats, more forcefully. “You made yourself clear. We don’t need to talk about this if you don’t want to. In fact, it might be better to never speak of it again, we’ve gone and locked this thing up in a coffin, that was the last nail, let’s bury it like it’s the rotting corpse of a beloved childhood pet we were forced to murder and forget about it completely.”</p><p>Okay, John is going to have to remind himself to ask Dirk what the <em>fuck</em> about that later. For now-</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“What?” He’s surprised, clearly. And John gets that; Dirk has always been the one pushing, the one to make John say things he didn’t want to, the one to pry out all the ugly truths and leave him bare and vulnerable.</p><p>It’d been spiteful for him, maybe. But for John, now? It’s not.</p><p>“No,” he repeats. “I don’t want to not talk about it. Things have been fine, but things have been weird, and this sounds dumb as hell in the context of, like. Everything else that’s going on, because I don’t think either of us should be trying to figure out weird...ex stuff in the middle of a whole rebellion, but here we are. Things have been fine, but they’ve been so <em>weird</em>.” John takes a breath, meets Dirk’s shaded eyes for a moment. “Maybe it isn’t a big deal in the bigger picture, but it’s kind of a big deal to me right now.”</p><p>And Dirk thaws, slowly, with each word that comes out of his mouth. John can see it; it’s a bigger relief than he’d thought.</p><p>“Okay,” Dirk says, slowly. They’ve simmered down now, and the mood’s more thoughtful than threatening to bubble over. “Okay, fine. I’m still sorry; you can do what you want with that. I just wanted you to know.”</p><p>“It was a shitty thing to do, so I’m glad you’re sorry,” John tells him. “It was like you dug up whatever you thought would hurt me the most, because you hated me for, well. Everything.”</p><p>“Different kind of hate. But, no. I don’t hate you for facilitating my relocation,” he says in return. “I was upset at the time. Not an excuse, just an explanation. I should have kept my head and kept quiet.”</p><p>Those words sound raw, and John wonders how often Dirk’s told himself that before. He’d always been the picture of perfect, icy control before. Him and his brother, the consolidation of Betty’s whole empire, right at the top of it with her. Dave like the sun or something, so bright you can’t ignore it, and Dirk like the moon, distant and his opposite but equally fascinating. Even when John had been able to draw genuine moments out of him, it hadn’t been like this. He’d been in control, even then.</p><p>“I should have, too,” John admits, quietly. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. You were being a huge dick and you didn’t need to be. But I didn’t really understand why this was such a big deal for you. To be honest, I’m not sure I do now? But at least I know that it is.”</p><p>“It isn’t,” Dirk says, but it’s automatic. He corrects himself a moment later. “It is, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll do what I said I would. We did make a deal, after all, and my word is my honor. Not like I’ve really got any of <em>that</em> anyway, but my word is basically all I have now, so it’d be real poor form to go back on it.”</p><p>John can take a hint there, even if he isn’t sure he should. The issue is that he wants to press further, but not because he’s worried about Dirk lying- Rose has been checking pretty much everything, and John’s been able to help with that too, and he hasn’t been- but because he might be a little worried about what this means for Dirk himself. Which is insane, and he fully knows it. Dirk Crocker definitely doesn’t want <em>anyone</em> worrying about him, let alone John. John doesn’t have to worry about him, and it would probably be a lot less stressful if he didn’t, but.</p><p>“You’ve got stuff here, though,” he settles on saying. “I guess it doesn’t seem like much, in comparison to everything else, but. It’s all yours.”</p><p>Dirk hums at that, which isn’t really an answer, and doesn’t help on the worrying front.</p><p>“I guess so. And it won’t matter, if Mother just kills us all when Lalonde decides to make her move.” This is cheer so blatantly fake that John almost winces. “Sorry, was that too pessimistic?”</p><p>“A little bit, yeah,” John frowns. “I mean, sure, we can all die, but at least we get to die fighting with some dignity. They’ll never say that we just rolled over.”</p><p>“They’ll say things that are way worse, if they say things about you at all,” Dirk shrugs. “History’s written by the victors, bro, isn’t that what everyone says?”</p><p>“Maybe. But I think, no matter what, there’s going to be someone that remembers how it really was. And they’re going to keep telling other people, and it’s going to grow. And even if it doesn’t mean anything in the future, I think it means something now. That’s what matters.” In the silence that follows this statement, John clears his throat awkwardly. He hadn’t meant to get that passionate about it, or that cheesy. <em>That’s what matters, </em>bluh.</p><p>“It’s a good a way to look at it as any,” Dirk answers. It’s a nicer reply than John had been expecting from him. “I’m surprised you thought about it at all. Your- legacy, and all that, if you want to be particularly formal about it.”</p><p>This is pretty obviously Dirk trying to steer the conversation to something else. Jeez, he’s really not as subtle as he thinks sometimes. But John lets it happen; he’s said what he needed to, he thinks. The air feels clearer. And while it’s nice to embarrass Dirk and watch him squirm, <em>he</em> probably needs way longer to recover than John does from an awkward emotional conversation.</p><p>“Rose has kind of thought about it a lot,” he hedges. “But, yeah. I can’t really...not? Like, one of the first things I did when I started getting more involved than just being a name and a face who was leftist on main and who made lots of jokes about bad cake, was get my will set up. Rose pretty much told me I had to, and yeah, it was really grim, but she was right to do it.”</p><p>“Because your ex-girlfriend nearly got you killed?” Dirk does not sound too amused by that.</p><p>“Well, yeah, but that’s not the only time I’ve almost died,” John points out. “Like. Even without her, as I got older and started speaking out more….”</p><p>“She would have been after you, yes,” Dirk finishes the sentence easily. “Well, there was hope for converting you yet, but you were too public to make disappear just like that, and we- she- didn’t want you becoming a martyr.”</p><p>“What would you have done?” John asks. He can’t help it; he’s sickly fascinated.</p><p>“Other than you?” There it is again, Dirk bordering on flirtation, because he’s the prince of dumb mixed messages. But John- and he still doesn’t know how this happened- knows it well enough to be a deflection. It doesn’t stop him from blushing anyway, but at least he knows what it is.</p><p>“Duh.” He rolls his eyes, tries to play it cool. “Answer the question, you dork.”</p><p>“I’m not a dork. But, very well. You likely know that I never seriously tried to convince you of anything. That was a lost cause, I knew already, no matter how useful it might’ve been to have someone with your influence. I probably would’ve just worked to get you cancelled. John Egbert’s DMs leaked, that kind of thing.”</p><p>“There’s nothing in my DMs, though? This doesn’t seem like a good strategy to me. Well, okay, fine, there’s some weird stuff, but I’m not the one sending the weird stuff, or responding to it.”</p><p>“They’d be fake, dumbass,” Dirk says, annoyed. “I’d make up some cannibalism sexting nonsense, that worked for Armie Hammer, didn’t it?”</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>“….Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>“Okay, but. I’m not actually a cannibal. That’s like, a pretty major flaw.”</p><p>“Nobody’s perfect,” Dirk says with a faint smirk. “And it’s a story bizarre enough that it’ll grow legs, no matter whether it’s true or not. I grew up with Dave, bro, I know how to make shit go viral. I just don’t, because I have actual work to do.”</p><p>John isn’t sure that logic works, exactly, but he does know that Dirk’s the more efficient of the two by far.</p><p>“Well, I guess I’m glad I avoided that fate? Honestly, I feel like the embarrassment for something like that would be pretty intense.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, the awful teal suit of yours must have prepped you for it,” Dirk says, disdainful.</p><p>“Hey! I thought you liked that suit, you were always all over me,” John realizes as soon as he’s said it that this is in fact wrong, and the reason that Dirk was so quick to get it off him had nothing to do with being overwhelmed by how hot he was in it. Man. Maybe it’s a good thing they’re not hate-dating anymore; he isn’t sure his ego would really be able to handle this realization if they were. He didn’t think it was <em>that</em> bad. “You’re just too picky,” he adds.</p><p>“I’m not picky, I have taste.”</p><p>“Did you even own clothes that weren’t suits?” John counters. “Because I’d literally only ever seen you in suits or nothing.”</p><p>“And you liked the nothing.”</p><p>Instead of confirming or denying it, John just ignores that, and keeps going, “Listen, the first time I saw you in like, casual clothes? Was the night you got here and had to borrow a pair of mine. So forgive me for not thinking that you even knew what sweatpants were.”</p><p>“I owned sweatpants,” Dirk says. “What the fuck kind of assumption is that? It’s not like I was one of the rich people from Arrested Development. A fairly important chunk of running the country required being aware of the economy.”</p><p>“Running the country into the ground you mean?”</p><p>“Well, you have to know where the ship’s headed and the location of the icebergs, if you want to crash it.” He sounds- almost proud, and John doesn’t like it. Not really. He’d always known that Dirk hadn’t seen what was so fucked up, about what he was doing, even if John isn’t too sure now about how much choice he’d actually had. But if he’s still proud of all of that now? It shouldn’t feel like a failure, on his end. It’s not his job to teach Dirk Crocker morals. It’d just be shitty. And maybe that’s because John wants him to be a good person, deep down. He’s pretty sure that Dirk’d laugh him out of the room for that, though.</p><p>“You make it sound like it was...really calculated,” John starts. “I mean, didn’t you ever stop to think that it was wrong?”</p><p>It comes out more accusing than he means it, and he sees Dirk start to bristle again, just for a second, before he visibly wipes out all traces of that reaction from his face and body language. It’s still freaky that he can do that.</p><p>“Why, Mr. Egbert,” he drawls out. “Do you want me to say that I always thought that, and that I hated every second of doing my job, and spent years yearning for someone to sweep in and rescue me?”</p><p>It’s mocking and cutting and plain mean, just the way that Dirk <em>is</em> sometimes, when he’s being defensive- and yeah, John’s learned a whole lot about him, and he isn’t trying to start another fight this time, so he doesn’t bother to rise to it.</p><p>“That’d be ridiculous,” he says instead, matter-of-fact. It works nearly as well at deflating Dirk than when he’d insisted he wanted to talk about things earlier. This is probably a trick he’ll be using often. Still, he tries to be a little bit more conciliatory when he explains. “I just want to know. That’s all. You, uh. Don’t actually have to answer.”</p><p>Dirk sighs. “I hate it when you try to be the bigger person, you know that?”</p><p>“I know, it’s because I usually am.” He grins for good measure, wide and genuine in the way that he knows Dirk doesn’t like.</p><p>“Fine. We’re having all the difficult conversations today, it seems,” he murmurs. “Equal payment for a meal together, I suppose. To actually answer you, bro, the answer’s not that I didn’t stop to think that it was wrong, but that I didn’t think about it at all. You wouldn’t understand it if I explained, but suffice it to say that it wasn’t just a job. I took pride in my work, yes, and there were some aspects of it that I found unpalatable. Especially,” and here, Dirk pauses, his mouth twisting wryly for a second, “Especially as our acquaintance continued.”</p><p>“You wouldn’t have left on your own, though,” John feels compelled to say. He doesn’t know why, but hey. His mouth running the show here has surprisingly not led to disastrous consequences, and it’s not like it’ll start listening to his brain now.</p><p>“No,” Dirk tells him. “I didn’t know that I could.”</p><p>It should come out raw, and too-earnest, and emotional, but it doesn’t. It’s flat, a fact simply stated, and so very Dirk that it makes John ache right down to his toes. There’s nothing he can say to that; Dirk didn’t thank him, and even if he’d maybe wanted a thanks before, he knows he’s not going to get one. So he just nods.</p><p>The quiet swells between them, but it’s not as sharp as earlier.</p><p>“Here, I’ll clear the table and get the dishes done,” John offers, just to fill the silence. He’s pretty sure they both need a whole minute after that conversation. “It’s not like you really left that many to do; you washed all the pots and pans.”</p><p>“There were only three,” Dirk says. He sounds amused, which is probably the best that John could hope for, <em>and</em><span> he stands to go settle himself on the couch. He takes his soda with him too, clearly nursing it like most other people would nurse some good whiskey. John just lets him be, and busies himself with their plates. </span><span>He doesn’t think too much about their conversation; he still feels scraped raw and thin by it, but he’s grateful to have a second to breathe and just, focus on something else. Something normal and mundane. </span></p><p>Wash the dishes, scrub them clean, and then put them on the rack next to the sink. It looks like everything on it will collapse if he so much as breathes in its direction, so it’s a hell of a challenge to actually wrangle the plates onto it. It’s real precarious, but it beats actually drying the dishes.</p><p>John just pats his hands awkwardly on his thighs to dry them as he heads back into the living room- and then freezes, when there’s a lack of Dirk there.</p><p>He wouldn’t leave just like that, without saying goodbye, John’s pretty sure. Well, he might, but that’s a whole other thing.</p><p>“Hello?” he calls out anyway. John tries and fails not to feel like an idiot when he does it.</p><p>“In here,” comes the answer, and John’s not super relieved by it, nope. Except- it’s come from his bedroom, whose door was definitely not that open when he left to deal with the kitchen.</p><p>John’s never moved faster in his entire life, because what the fuck.</p><p>“What are you doing in there??” John asks, startled to see Dirk inside his fucking bedroom, sitting on his bed, and that would be inviting in some Thoughts, if it wasn’t <em>also</em> for the stack of magazines that he’s got sitting next to him. Oh, no. <em>Oh, no</em>.</p><p>“I didn’t know they made these anymore,” is all that Dirk fucking Crocker says, all casual and normal like he’s not staring at a Playboy centerfold. Oh, jeez. He thought they were safe under the bed in a box, but maybe he needs to invest in some security!</p><p>“They’re classics, Dirk,” John says, trying to save <em>some</em> of his dignity here. “And they’re classics for a reason.”</p><p>“They’re no Terrier Fancy, or Black Inches, that’s for sure,” Dirk agrees, and those sound- uh. Very kinky. And not in a way that John might’ve expected from him. “But it’s also better than all the shit everyone left lying around back ho- back there.” John pretends not to notice that slip.</p><p>“Are you saying that people just regularly left stuff like this in your office?”</p><p>“My dude, I came back from a meeting one day to find all the walls plastered in an array of dick pics. This is tame.” A pause, and then he adds, “Plus, Noir is not as subtle about hiding his smut as he thinks he is. And the Droll just doesn’t even try, bless his fuckin’ soul.”</p><p>“I…really hope I’m not expected to have any answers to that,” John tells him, earnest. “But wow, imagine if you called HR for those dick pics.”</p><p>“Dave is HR. God, I hope he’s not in any of these,” Dirk frowns down at the one on his lap. “But they seem pretty heterosexual. Are the dude ones in your closet or something?”</p><p>“No!” They are, but John’s not just going to <em>tell</em> him that. He’s also going to move them, like. Immediately. Having his hate-ex root around in his room for porn was really not what he thought was going to happen this evening.</p><p>Okay, Dirk is barely just his hate-ex or like, first time trying out troll romance. They’re friends too, John’s pretty sure, but he’s not going to say that out loud and jinx it. They are. And if John is maybe still having to work a little bit at staying strictly platonic- he’s too old for a crush like this, and now is really not the time- then Dirk never has to know that either.</p><p>“Right,” he says, and the look of deadpan disbelief on Dirk’s face, from where he’s sitting on John’s actual bed, in his space like he’s never been again, is affecting in ways John wishes he understood. “Out of my room, come on! There’s no secret stuff for you to find and be super nervous about, okay?”</p><p>“Well, other than your porn?”</p><p>“It’s not porn!” Is he ever going to live this down? John’s face feels like it’s burning. “And I never was this nosy about <em>your </em><span>room, you know.”</span></p><p>“<span>That’s because you didn’t have time to be, although that didn’t stop you from trying to see if the bookshelves had any secret passages. I told you, broseph, it’s not National Treasure up in there.” Dirk does at least straighten up, and he doesn’t even look that uncomfortable discussing the past anymore. Wow. Looks like their chat over dinner actually did some good.</span></p><p>“<span>Ha, you remembered something about a Nic Cage movie,” he says, and lets the weight rise off his shoulders. He just points at Dirk, triumphant. “So who’s really winning here?”</span></p><p>
  <span>Dirk’s look of abject horror, quick as it might be, is enough to settle the flicker of uncertainty in John’s gut. At least for now.</span>
</p><p>“<span>That’s what I thought,” John tells him smugly, and he gets a face full of magazines for his effort. Vintage boobs are all he sees for a long moment, and, okay, maybe this is not a bad thing in general, but it’s a very bad thing with Dirk still in the room, so he hurriedly stacks them back on the bed. “Now stop being nosy, we can do- something. If you still want to stick around, that is.”</span></p><p>
  <span>John tries very hard to not make it sound like he’s desperate for Dirk to stick around. It probably doesn’t work, but he tries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dirk hesitates, visibly, before nodding. “Sure. Put on another episode of the pony show,” he says, decisive, as he unfolds himself from John’s bed. “It’s the only tolerable thing you’ve shown me, and it seems you’ve finally learned how supply and demand work, since no one else has it on DVD. I didn’t know I was talking to another horse aficionado, bro, if you’d said, I’m sure we’d have gotten along better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John just rolls his eyes, and ignores how Dirk gives him a wide berth anyway as he slips out into the living room. </span>
</p><p>“<span>You shouldn’t judge someone by what horses they like, you know,” he points out. He joins Dirk on the couch this time, and puts the stupid horse show on. </span></p><p>“<span>Rainbow Dash is better in this version,” Dirk tells him. “But then again, My Little Pony: Friendship Is An Important Part of Government Assigned Socialization isn’t exactly the best show around.”</span></p><p>
  <span>He’s not going to touch that one with a pole the size of a football field; he’s seen a few clips of it. And it’s a real low bar to clear, for the original. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John’s maybe paying more attention to Dirk than he is to the show, as it goes on, but no one needs to know that. For once, Dirk isn’t looking at him with wariness or suspicion; he’s relaxing by degrees, and even if he’s not smiling, John can see how he leans in slightly towards the TV, transfixed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses his palms flat against his thighs so he doesn’t reach out to Dirk, and he keeps quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through this episode, and then the next, and the next, until Dirk </span>
  <span>announces that he’s leaving</span>
  <span>, and he has to make do with a goodbye.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The whole fic is all good and done so I'm enjoying posting this without having to worry about closing my buffer. Haha!</p><p>Warnings for this chapter: Uh, mostly Vriska and references to her canon behavior.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Egbert. Egbert, open the fucking door,” a very familiar raspy voice snarls. John heaves out a long breath and thinks very hard about <em>not</em> opening the door, because he just woke up and his eyes burn and he’s pretty sure he’s going to have to deal with some kind of yelling about how stupid he’s being.</p><p>It’s Karkat at the door, so the rant might not even be about Dirk-related stupidity. Maybe if he closes his eyes he’ll fall asleep so deeply he won’t hear anything or have to deal with this.</p><p>A loud slam of a fist against the door shatters any expectation of rest. God, that’s probably woken up everyone in the building.</p><p>“Get off your lazy fucking ass and open the damn door!” Oh, fuck, he’s getting louder.</p><p>“Fucking- fine!” John calls back. He tries not to sound furious or annoyed or exhausted. He fails that one spectacularly, he’s pretty sure. John shoves his glasses onto his face, not even bothering to deal with his hair or brush his teeth or anything. He’s kind of taller than Karkat still, but if the guy woke him up and demanded entry, he’s going to just have to deal with morning breath. That’s not John’s problem. It actually might be the only benefit to this whole thing.</p><p>He shuffles over to the door, and opens it up.</p><p>Karkat looks up at him, thoroughly unimpressed and <em>way</em> too awake for what’s, like. Stupid early in the morning.</p><p>“You look chipper,” John says.</p><p>“Fuck you and the hoofbeast you rode in on,” Karkat says back. “What were you even doing, sleeping? Aren’t you fucking diurnal pink freaks supposed to be awake when your sky orb is up?”</p><p>“I had a long night?” Yeah, he wouldn’t buy that excuse either. John sighs and rubs a hand on his cheek. “I was just catching up on some sleep. A lot’s been going on lately, and, uh. I kind of figure I’m going to need to rest up while I still can? Rose keeps dropping a bunch of vague hints in like, every meeting, and all it’s doing is stressing me out.”</p><p>Karkat heaves out a sigh and deflates to half his width. There’s still a lot of width, to be fair, but it’s a real fucking mood. “Yeah,” he says. “Fucking Lalonde and her cryptic mysterious bullshit is setting fucking everyone on edge. How many times can one woman fucking drop a clue that this is the endgame coming up without actually saying what the fuck is going on? Too many for me to count on my touchstubs, that’s for sure, because <em>apparently</em> being all mysterious and shit is the mark of a good leader. Fucking whatever.”</p><p>John can relate to that one, even if he, personally, isn’t really that sore about Rose not saying she was related to Betty (and Dirk, oh god, she better not try to shovel talk him for real, not that they’re going to get that far, not that anything’s going to be gotten). Either way. It doesn’t surprise him that Karkat still kind of is; he’d known Rose longer, and just because he’s not going to scream about it to everyone, doesn’t really mean he wouldn’t scream just a little. You know, as a treat.</p><p>“Yeah,” John agrees, with feeling. He opens the door up wider. “You can come inside, by the way, but I’m not making you coffee or anything. I literally just woke up because of you, you can make me the coffee.”</p><p>“What, you think I’m here to fucking wait on your lazy ass prong and nub?” Karkat raises an eyebrow, contemptuous in the furious way only he can really do. “Fuck no. Make your own stimulant juice, I’m staying away from that shit.”</p><p>“Water, then,” John decides for him, because he can’t just not offer him a snack and a drink. “Nothing to eat?”</p><p>“Smells good in here, which is fucking worrying, because you can’t cook for shit. It’s like a wriggler got loose in the kitchen, when you’re through,” Karkat says. “But no. I ate already.” And then, a very grudging, “Thanks.”</p><p>Aw. He does care. That buoys John up some, as he gets his instant coffee going- and no, he doesn’t care if it’s blasphemy against the beans or whatever! All he wants is the caffeine, and it’s not like he’s going to really go for <em>Red Bull</em> or something. Besides. This is pretty strong, even if he dumps in enough creamer and sugar that he doesn’t really taste it. The waking without the suffering, and all that. He also pours out a glass of water for Karkat while he waits for that; the jug’s in the fridge, and there’s still enough from last night.</p><p>John brings both over when he’s done, Karkat having just made himself comfortable on the couch. Which is fair enough, but he’s sitting like it’s personally offended him. More than usual, anyway.</p><p>“So,” John starts, awkwardly. “Not to say that I’m not happy to see you or anything, but. Normally you visit at more reasonable hours? Or just text, actually, but I guess you’ve got more free time right now than you have in a while.”</p><p>“My schedule is not fucking clear, I’m still busy as shit, because Lalonde is fifty times worse than any productivity-quota obsessed militant Drone hovering over the back of my fucking nub waiting to deliver me to Jeff fucking Bezos himself if I don’t make like a shitty fat bearded man’s elf and get the packages done.” Okay, so Karkat is not very happy about the one thing. “But- that’s not what I’m here to fucking talk to <em>your</em> ass about.”</p><p>Huh.</p><p>“Is it...a personal thing?” he hedges. They’ve made a lot of steps towards that lately, and while it’s weird and John probably is not remotely equipped for it. He kind of has to try.</p><p>“What the fuck, no.” And then there’s a long beat of silence, as John struggles not to just ask what the fuck is happening. He sips his coffee instead, and it’s still way too hot, but that can wake him up, too.</p><p>“She wants you to get in touch with Vriska,” is what Karkat finally spits out, and John’s jaw drops. Coffee leaks from his open mouth and onto his shirt.</p><p>“Shit, fuck-,” he curses, snapping his mouth shut too late and trying to just, salvage it with the hem of his shirt. Man, this was white too, the stain’s never coming out.</p><p>“Normally I would make sure you never lived that fucking ridiculous shit down, but that is frankly fucking valid as a reaction to that rancid bitch,” Karkat snarls. He’s tense all over, and he sinks even more aggressively into John’s couch. “I told Lalonde we shouldn’t have fucking tried to do <em>shit</em> with her before, that having Terezi on the inside would be good enough if we were fucking careful- not that Pyrope is ever fucking careful about anything, but she’s on a whole other level of weird- but, no. Not even Kanaya was in favor of it, because she has two fucking brain cells to rub together in her pan and she knows Serket is a huge pain in the ass to deal with, just like anyone who lays their fucking ocular balls on her.”</p><p>That’s a lot, and John registers absolutely none of it. All he manages to say dumbly is, “Vriska?”</p><p>“Jesus shitting fuck,” Karkat breathes. “Talking to your dumb ass is like talking to a fucking brick wall, Egbert. No, wait, the wall is probably a better listener, because it at least would have the fucking courtesy to <em>not</em> just blubber out what I literally just said. Yes, <em>Vriska</em>.”</p><p>“I thought she was-,” John pauses. He isn’t sure what, exactly, she was doing. They don’t talk all that much anymore. “Doing...stuff? Bluh. I thought Rose had let her live out her piratey dreams or whatever, hassling all the bases in those weird remote islands in the middle of the ocean.”</p><p>“Yeah. Your fucking ex-boyfriend knew a bunch that she hadn’t hit yet or what the fuck ever, so she’s been busy. Apparently Rose doesn’t fucking want her to <em>keep</em> staying busy, which would be the intelligent thing to do, because seriously, do you want her around when you’re actually trying to pull off a coup? No. She’ll fuck everything up, somehow. Because that’s what she does.”</p><p>“That seems kind of pessimistic,” John hazards. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m not thrilled to be seeing her either, but it’s not like she’s a bad person to have on your side. And- like. Why do I have to tell her about this? You or Rose or Kanaya could do it.” He doesn’t bother mentioning Sollux. Sollux, for reasons that John is pretty sure he’s better off <em>not</em> actually knowing, would probably just fry her like an egg. Then again, he might do that on sight anyway, so it looks like <em>someone</em> is going to have to run interference with her. Oh, who is he kidding. It’s going to be him. It’s always him.</p><p>“Yeah, but listen real fucking close to this one, Egbert. We don’t fucking want to.” Karkat grits that out, but his posture softens some on the next exhale. Somehow, this is actually more worrying. “And yeah, she can deal a fuckton of damage and that helps, but the thing about her is that she’ll decide she isn’t on your fucking side anymore, and then you have to deal with her.”</p><p>“Karkat,” John says, slowly. “You’re saying this like you think she’s going to immediately just depose the whole government.”</p><p>“No, fucknuts. I’m saying that she’ll get rid of us after we do all the hard work and then make the government.”</p><p>“That’s insane. Like, I know you don’t like her-,”</p><p>“Understatement of the fucking century, no one likes her.”</p><p>“-<em>but</em>, do you seriously thinks she wants to be in charge of anything? Like, actually in charge? Of government? Where there’s paperwork and people to boss around who won’t actually listen to her, and like, zero chance of <em>actually</em> doing stuff? Half the time she talks to me these days is to like, bother me about how her crew isn’t listening, and also about all the paperwork Rose is making her do. And okay, that last part is valid, because the paperwork sucks, and originally I thought that was just a Rose thing, but nope, that’s just how being in charge works,” John grumbles. Okay, he’s getting off track, here. He clears his throat. “My point is. I kind of think you’re letting a lot get in the way of, like. Working with her.”</p><p>“A lot?? She is the fucking reason we ended up here, and let’s not forget all the shit she did before that, because fuck if I’m going to just<em> work</em> with that fucking psychotic bitch when all she’ll do is stab me right in the back, again.” Karkat snarls that out, and he’s breathing heavily now, his hands curled into tight fists.</p><p>Man. John is really not the guy he should be talking to about this. But John’s the guy he decided to talk to about this, and he’s just going to have to suck it up.</p><p>“Okay. I don’t know what went on, before,” he starts, cautiously. Karkat snorts.</p><p>“You sure fucking don’t. Because it’s fucked up to the max. But sure, I went, yeah, it was wriggler shit, Terezi is fucking fine with her, and Tavros was fine with her too, and Aradia is fucking dead but she’s fine too, right, so why the fuck should I be pissed when she didn’t do diddly fucking shit to me?” He bites out each word, but his eyes are wide. Wild. John’s seen that look plenty before, just not from Karkat.</p><p>He doesn’t remember it being like this, back when Vriska’d been around more often, just after he’d joined.</p><p>“Oh, but sure, you’re fucking fine with her too, because everyone somehow has crawled up her fucking ass to worship her, or whatever! God, Egbert, she nearly fucking killed you! What the fuck! How am I the only one that remembers this shit? I mean- gah, god, fuck!!” Karkat is all but shouting now, pivoting to face John. “Fuck, don’t you think I <em>want </em>to work with her? Don’t you think I fucking know that I have to? I know how to put shit aside, I’ve somehow fucking ended up on civil terms with Dirk fucking Crocker, and I didn’t fucking strangle Lalonde with my two bare prongs for the fucking <em>nonsense</em> she pulled getting him here and for not telling us plenty of fucking important shit. I have the patience of a goddamn saint, and you fucking know it. My ex-moirail was a goddamn insane clown whose ancestor fucking showed up here for fuck knows why, and I deal with Sollux on a daily goddamn <em>basis</em>! I am fully <em>fucking</em> allowed to flip my shit about Vriska, because she is somehow worse than all of them combined!”</p><p>“Karkat,” John says, firmly.</p><p>“What,” he snaps. He’s hunched in on himself.</p><p>“You need to tell Rose about this,” he says.</p><p>“I need to fucking what?”</p><p>“Talk to Rose!” John gestures widely with his free hand. “Listen. She asked me like ten different times if I was sure I could handle being at the meetings with Dirk, and- listen, he’s a dick, and we both know that, but he’ll actually <em>get shit done</em>, and stop being as big of an asshole for it, if that makes sense. It wasn’t really going to be an issue, and I’m pretty sure she kind of knew that. Based on, like. His reputation alone.”</p><p>“And also you, you fucking imbecile.”</p><p>“Listen, this has nothing to do with me, or him! I’m just trying to be nice and provide a good example,” John points out, fairly. Well, he thinks it’s fair. Karkat just looks like he ate a whole lemon. “Anyway, my point is that I think, if you tell her you want to minimize Vriska contact? It should be fine.”</p><p>“Maybe if you fucking told her you didn’t want to see the bitch,” Karkat mutters. “She’s so fucking soft for your dumb ass, it’s ridiculous. Bunch of pale bullshit nepotism, is what I’m saying.”</p><p>“Well, have you ever <em>tried</em> telling her that you didn’t want to see someone?” John asks. He even raises his eyebrow, kind of like he’s seen Rose do before for maximum skepticism.</p><p>“Put that thing back where it fucking came from, Egbert,” Karkat warns. “And no, I have not fucking <em>asked</em>, because I’m not a goddamn wriggler who needs their lusus to tell them who can come over to play and who’ll fucking cull them if they come near.”</p><p>John’s pretty lost on the metaphor, so he just gives a slow nod.</p><p>“Fucksake, what I <em>mean</em> is that what I can and can’t deal with isn’t her fucking business, one, and two, it isn’t exactly important. I’m just pissed off that I’ll have to suck it up and deal with her goddamn bullshit for however fucking long she decides to stick around for, and then still have to fucking worry about her stabbing us all in the back like the cutthroat nutjob she is.” Well. None of those are things that haven’t been said about Vriska before, John is pretty sure, although he personally hasn’t said them, or thought them. But apparently she and Karkat have a way different history.</p><p>“Okay, but, like. There’s ways for you to get around seeing her if you don’t want to,” John says, slowly. He’s trying not to sound condescending or anything, and he is also pretty sure he’s failing, as it happens.</p><p>“Oh my god. You’re so fucking dense. It’s not about seeing her, it’s about her being a-fucking-round. The further Serket is from any form of fucking government, the better. She can’t stand not sticking her sniffer in where it doesn’t fucking belong, saying shit about irons and fires, like anyone fucking cares about <em>that</em> or even wants her near it,” Karkat spits.</p><p>“And the further she is from you, the better too?” John asks, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>“Fucking obviously. Look at that, John Egbert, fucking genius. What a talent for stating the mind-numbingly obvious.”</p><p>“I’m just saying! I can’t really help you fix this if you’re only going to like, ignore everything I say.” John tries not to sound too annoyed or frustrated. It...really doesn’t work. But Karkat heaves out a long sigh.</p><p>“Fucking idiot. I don’t want you to solve this shit, hell, I don’t think <em>I</em> could, and out of the two of us, I have to wrangle enough shit into a workable solution so I’m better at that shit anyway. I’m just here to complain at you. Your thinksponge has room for four fucking jokes and whatever the hell is going on between you and Dirk fucking Lalonde, asking it to come up with an actual fucking solution to something would be inviting fucking danger.”</p><p>Dirk Lalonde? Nope. John doesn’t like that- and it’s not the time, anyway.</p><p>“One, I just wanted to help, so fuck you, I guess,” John starts, frowning. “But I can shut up and just let you talk if you really want to. I mean, I can’t explain how Vriska and I are still on decent terms and all that, we just. Kind of are. But that’s because I don’t super care to hold a grudge like that, especially now that I know better than to like. Listen to her all the time. It sounds like you’ve got...a way more complicated deal with her.”</p><p>“No fucking shit,” Karkat mutters. “Just shut up and let me bitch. I’d normally bore the shit out of Captor, but he’s brooding over some fucking thing again. And I don’t fucking want to know if he’s somehow coping with it. And- anyway, it’s not like I’m the one who has to go tell her to do something. Good fucking luck with <em>that</em> by the way.”</p><p>John makes a face. “Gee, thanks. I’m sure it’ll be fine, she listens sometimes. I don’t know. I’m just going to ask Rose what to say- wait, no, all she does is get on Vriska’s nerves deliberately.”</p><p>“Yeah. Brave fucking woman, Lalonde is,” Karkat snorts. “The most fucked up part of it is that the spiderbitch fucking listens.”</p><p>“Well. Rose is hard not to listen to,” John reasons. “And if they’re doing some weird hate thing, I don’t want to know about it.”</p><p>Karkat actually looks like he’s <em>thinking</em> about it, and as he opens his mouth, John cuts him off.</p><p>“Anyway,” he keeps going, “I’m probably going to have to like. Actually think about the best way to do this and get her to show up? Like, I can’t be too bossy, or make it seem like we’re really desperate to have her here-,”</p><p>“God, I fucking wish we weren’t,” Karkat mutters. John ignores it.</p><p>“-’cause then she’ll just get annoying about it, and I’m not going to try and <em>negotiate </em>with her and get a headache from it. Bluh,” he huffs out a breath. “This is going to be so annoying.”</p><p>“Wow. Look at that, John Egbert saying a bad fucking word about his psychotic spider ex girlfriend. Your current boyfriend must be really fucking rubbing off on you.” Karkat snorts, and it sure doesn’t sound like a compliment. “Sorry, not your boyfriend, your fucking flush crush that you two goddamn idiots refuse to acknowledge.”</p><p>“Oh my god, stop trying to change the topic to Dirk when we’re talking about Vriska!”</p><p>“...You know something, Egbert?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You have the single fucking worst taste of anyone I’ve ever seen, it’s physically fucking painful.”</p><p>“...At least I’m not friend-dating Sollux.”</p><p>“That doesn’t make you fucking better, bulgesnot, that just means he doesn’t fucking want to talk to you. As fucking if I could get ten minutes of peace around here, though,” Karkat hisses out. He looks- okay, genuinely kind of upset about it now. He <em>really</em> needs to talk to Rose about taking like, a day or something for himself. John knows full well they can’t really afford it, but it’s better than him flipping his shit because he’s somehow <em>more</em> ornery when he’s stressed out.</p><p>“Okay, I know I just said you needed to talk to Rose, but you seriously do. Get someone else to do your stuff for a day, or literally even just a couple of hours,” John says, because he has to try.</p><p>“What the fuck is wrong with you, I can’t- listen, just because <em>you</em> can fucking go gallivanting around in the public building support or what the fuck ever and selling out stadiums, doesn’t mean that I can, because some of us actually do shit around here!” Karkat’s shouting now, more so than usual, and it- well. It stings. It also rips open the bandage he’d gotten from his- well, there’s nothing to call it other than an argument, even though they were chill after- with Dirk.</p><p>“I do plenty, okay? And I’m not going to say this whole thing is happening because of me, because that’d be super fucking arrogant for no reason whatsoever, but don’t act like I’m not pulling my weight!” No, this isn’t it. He can’t just go yelling at Karkat just because <em>he’s</em> grouchy, not when the entire point of this is to try and get the dude to relax. John forces out a breath, forces out all those awful feelings bubbling up. “No, sorry. I’m just- I know we can’t afford to have you not doing anything, but you have to take care of yourself too. You never complain about Sollux and really mean it, and you were just doing that.”</p><p>“Fine,” Karkat says, grudgingly. “He’s just been shittier than fucking normal now that he goes to see that pointy-shaded asshole.”</p><p>Oh. No, that’s fine. It’s not like Dirk’s into him, John is pretty sure. And even if he was, he wouldn’t do anything about it for all the same reasons he’s not hate-dating John anymore. There’s literally no reason to feel weird about this.</p><p>“You think Dirk’s pissing him off or something?” John asks instead. “Because I mean, that doesn’t really sound out of the ordinary. He’s good at that. You know he’s good at that.”</p><p>“God fucking knows he does it to me when I see him, yeah,” Karkat mutters. “But ‘shittier’ was probably not the most fucking precise word to use. I know you don’t ever fucking talk to him-,”</p><p>“Hey,” John protests. “I tried that one time and he told me he’d cook me like an egg.”</p><p>“He said he would fry you fucking bald.”</p><p>“That’s not better!”</p><p>“What the fuck ever. Let me keep fucking talking, asshole, or <em>I’ll</em> cook you like a goddamn cluckbeast roundchild.” He even pauses to make sure that John’s not going to talk, the dramatic dumbass, and John mimes zipping his lips, locking them, and throwing away the key for good measure. It makes Karkat scowl harder, but he figures that’s a good thing.</p><p>“<em>Fucking finally</em>,” he mutters. Karkat crosses his arms over his broad chest, hunches down into himself in a way that he probably thinks makes him look smaller and angrier, but mostly makes him look like a boulder. John has never shared that observation with Karkat, no matter how often he thinks it, and he’s going to keep with that trend today. “Anyway. He’s had some fucking beetle up his wastechute about <em>whatever</em> it is he and Crocker talk about, because of fucking course he does, but it’s making him fucking- motivated. Productive. It is fucking bizarre as shit to see this jackass walking around like he has shit to do and you better not get in his way as he does it. What the fuck is even up with that? Karkat, you might want to open your cakehole and say, you should fucking know. And the answer is no, Egbert, I don’t fucking know because this is the one goddamn time Sollux decides to keep shit to himself and keep his fat mouth shut instead of bitching me out about it.”</p><p>Karkat stops to breathe, and John tries to process that and come up with, like. Something to say that isn’t completely stupid and inane. He’s having trouble, and he is not going to tell<em> anyone</em> that. Emotions are hard to deal with, and he’s just barely got a grasp of the troll squares, okay? He’s trying.</p><p>“Is it...that bad?” he asks, haltingly. “I mean, like you said. We don’t really talk that much, and he’s kind of a dick even if I think he can do some neat stuff, so. I don’t actually know how weird this is for him.”</p><p>Karkat hisses out something, all clicky and rumbly, and John registers it as Alternian. He’s got no idea what it means, though. Maybe he should start learning, or something? Wait, no, now’s not the time to wonder if the Duolingo fish actually has this as a language, or if his vocal cords can like. Manage it.</p><p>“I’m just saying,” John huffs. “I get that you’re worried, but it’s kinda hard for me to figure out how worried I should be, you know? Especially now, where- okay, if he had to pick a time to be like, ridiculously and dangerously productive and busy and stuff, now would kind of be it?”</p><p>“See, that’s the fucking <em>thing.</em>” Karkat pinches at the bridge of his nose with his fingers, yellow claws against grey skin. “He fucking hates that bitch, yeah, but he didn’t give a fuck about Lalonde or her plan before this. No, wait, your face is doing something shitty.” John tries to make it...not do that? He doesn’t think it works, but Karkat keeps going anyway. “He was <em>along</em>, he was helping, sure, but we were all fucking here, and where the fuck else was he going to go to save his own hide? I’m not saying he wasn’t fucking invested or some shit because he was on a moral standpoint, or whatever. But now it’s like this shit is personal, which is making me wonder what in the fuck they talked about, because his whole fucking deal for years was just- yeah, we’re all going to fucking die, we’re doomed, we might as well go along with this to be less shittily doomed or what the fuck ever, I don’t know how his pan works half the time. Now, though? He’s doing shit no one asked him to do, he’s holed up with Lalonde junior for most of the fucking time she’s here, and he’s visiting fucking Crocker out of his own fucking volition, since he’s just discovered a goddamn bonestrut.”</p><p>“...And you wish you’d been the one to inspire him?” John hazards a guess there. From the way Karkat snarls, he knows that he’s right. Okay, this, he can handle. “I mean, okay. <em>If </em>they’re doing some weird spade flirting stuff-,” and John does <em>not</em> say how much he doesn’t like the thought of that, even if he isn’t sure he feels that way about Dirk anymore, which is probably five levels of shitty on its own, “- then I think that’s probably just, Dirk being Dirk.”</p><p>“Egbert, what in the unholy fuck is <em>that</em> supposed to mean? You might as well say ‘it’s just wrigglers being wrigglers’ or some shit as they cause fucking chaos and do dumb shit they should fully fucking know better than to do.”</p><p>“Bluh! No, I mean- that’s how it was with me? I’m pretty sure everyone noticed that I’d sort of changed, even if I didn’t really. Like. Dirk is <em>really</em> good at motivating people out of spite,” he tries. “And isn’t that whole hate thing supposed to be about pushing and challenging? At least, that’s what Rose said. So maybe, even if they’re not <em>actually</em> doing anything, the spite’s still there. Like. I know before we even so much as kissed, all I wanted to do was prove to him that I was way better than he’d thought.”</p><p>“Lalonde fucking schoolfed you the most idealized romantic bullshit of all and you didn’t give her shit for it?” Karkat looks incredulous, but his tone’s lost a lot of venom. “Your theory has merit. I guess. But I don’t fucking know. Sollux vacillates quadrants more than any-fucking-one else I’ve ever met, and that includes <em>your</em> dumb ass, and you didn’t even know what the fuck they were until yesterday.”</p><p>“Months!”</p><p>“Same fucking difference. You haven’t even said the word kismesissitude.”</p><p>“I can’t spell it either, so that doesn’t count.”</p><p>“Jesus fuck.”</p><p>“<em>Anyway,</em>” John soldiers on. “I think you should probably talk to him about it.”</p><p>“I cannot fucking believe that’s your advice now. What, is it your solution to every single fucking problem? Just talk at it?”</p><p>“No, it’s my solution for your problems, because you’re being dumb and <em>not</em> talking about it. Go to Rose and tell her you need a day to chill, or that you don’t want to see Vriska if you don’t have to, and then go talk to Sollux and tell him you want him to like. Pat you or something.”</p><p>“This is the most inept fucking thing I’ve heard in my life.”</p><p>“Well, it sucks, because I’m right!”</p><p>“...Yeah,” Karkat sighs. He finally deflates some. “I cannot fucking wait for all this shit to be over, but at the same time? I know that when it’s done, it’s not fucking done.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” John frowns, now, and that only deepens when Karkat laughs, the sound harsh.</p><p>“Egbert, you fucking naive asshole. Winning is just where the fucking work <em>starts</em>. Lalonde and I have been going over shit since day fucking one of how we’re going to get this shithole up and fucking functioning afterwards, and let me tell you, she is so goddamn stubborn it is a fucking miracle we got anything done.” Karkat shakes his head, but he sounds- proud. And once more, John feels like he’s been missing an entire chunk of the puzzle.</p><p>(Dirk, he thinks, would’ve known this. Dirk would’ve been disappointed that he hadn’t figured something out that is really fucking obvious in hindsight, but Karkat says it like he’s expected it, and- okay, Rose has made the conscious decision to not tell him plenty of things, but this, he thinks he can maybe understand better than most.)</p><p>“Wow. I mean, that makes sense, but I thought you’d have been saying it was counting chickens before they hatch,” he says instead. “Like. We could still probably die before any of this actually goes down.”</p><p>“Yeah, and assuming we fucking don’t, we can’t sit with our touchstubs up our fucking assholes the whole time while we try to figure shit out. Jesus, you didn’t think that’s what I meant when I said I was pissed that fucking Vriska was showing up?”</p><p>“Karkat, you have such a long list of complaints about her that it took me a while to realize that this got added to it, okay? And that’s valid, so shut it. Anyway, if you’ve been planning things out so much, then it should be fine,” he says, serious.</p><p>Karkat scoffs. No faith, and here’s John trying to encourage him. “No, listen,” he keeps going. “I get that you didn’t tell me anything about this, because- okay, it’s not my thing. But it’s your thing. I’ve seen you look at all those weird municipal planning things, and you and Roxy have <em>both</em> been with the Carapacians for ages, helping figure out safe places and settlements for now. I’ve literally been to Can Town.”</p><p>He finally melts; John knew he would, because Karkat’s got a real soft spot for the Mayor, and Can Town is basically his brain baby. Sure, Roxy did a lot of the work afterwards, and John’s pitched in, and Rose’d helped actually get the land, but Karkat is the one who planned it out and who sat down with the Mayor and worked on it for the two years it took to go from a literal pile of cans to what is probably going to be Can City (Cancún?) if they win.</p><p>“Can Town is fucking great, I’ll give you that,” Karkat says grudgingly. “But does it fucking scale up? Making one place that’s slightly less fucking shitty than the rest isn’t exactly a stellar goddamn review.”</p><p>“Oh my god, you can just say thank you for the compliment. Like. It isn’t that hard. And you know that I’m right. Look, I’ll help if you want me to, too,” he offers, with his best smile.</p><p>“What in the fuck are you going to do to help me with?” Karkat sounds genuinely confused by that, and that...stings a little, too. It must show on his face, because Karkat keeps going, “No, fuck, my stupid goddamn mouth. I didn’t fucking mean it like that. What I <em>meant</em> was that I thought you’d be too busy for that kind of shit afterwards. Don’t you want to get back to all your shitty jokes?”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Jeez, he’s trying to be considerate.</p><p>John lets out a breath. “I...guess.”</p><p>“You guess? Egbert, what the fuck. I get not thinking about the bigger picture because it’s a fucking lot when we’ve been on the losing fucking side the whole time, and probably will be, but haven’t you thought about what you’d do, on your own?” He sounds incredulous now, and god, when he says it like that, it <em>does</em> sound dumb.</p><p>“I mean. No? You say it like I’m too dumb or careless or not invested enough to think about the bigger picture- which is totally not true,” John adds. “I know what we’re doing here, and why we’re doing it, and it’s important! But the whole thing about us probably dying kind of goes both ways, y’know? It’s not that I haven’t thought about the big picture future or anything, I just...haven’t thought about it at all. Have you? Thought about it for yourself, I mean.”</p><p>Karkat’s quiet for a long moment as he thinks this over; it’s probably the most silent he’s been in ages, and John’s ears almost ring with the absence of his voice.</p><p>“Fuck. When you say it like that, it makes perfect fucking sense. Lalonde told you to make your goddamn will and you just stopped thinking about shit that would happen if you didn’t need to fucking put it into play because of the Empress.” His expression is complicated, though, and it flickers between irritation and a weird, distant sadness that John doesn’t really understand. “Yeah,” Karkat finally sighs. “I <em>guess</em> I’m in the same fucking boat. I don’t know what the fuck I want to do with myself after this. It’s not like I can fucking go back to Alternia. It’s not like I fucking want to. When I was there, it was like I was going to get culled if I fucking sneezed wrong, I thought, or tripped and fucking fell in public and that would be fucking <em>it</em> for me. And then I got <em>here</em>, and everything was so fucked up, and then Lalonde and I said we were going to <em>un</em>fuck it.”</p><p>“So,” John starts. “You’re saying that we just have different definitions of when it’s over.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You know. It’s- I guess it’s what we signed up for,” he muses. “You met Rose at the very beginning, right? Like, there was resistance, but it wasn’t like this. And you just said that you don’t think it’s over until things are better. But for me...it was kind of, yeah, let’s deal with the more immediate threat. Honestly? I don’t know what I’ll do, when it’s done. Part of me wants to sit and relax and just do nothing for a whole year, but I don’t think I can.”</p><p>It’s strange, to say that. To realize that he has a stake in what the world looks like, after this. If they win.</p><p>(They’ll win. They have to.)</p><p>To realize that actually, he kind of <em>wants</em> to have a stake.</p><p>“Well, shit,” Karkat says, succinct. “What the fuck are you going to do, then?”</p><p>“You asked what I could do, and honestly, man? I can talk to people, so you don’t have to,” John offers, and he’s only half-joking. “Like. I don’t know, pretty much the stuff that’s too important to leave but that Rose or you are too busy to handle yourselves. It’s not like you’re going to send Sollux to go, I don’t know. Negotiate or something.”</p><p>Karkat winces. Yeah, no one likes that picture.</p><p>“Fucking fair. We put up with you for so fucking long, we might as well keep doing it,” he says, but John could swear he sounds almost happy about it. He won’t call him out, though.</p><p>“Exactly,” John says instead. He grins. “And I can help you figure out what <em>you</em> want to do afterwards, too. Deal?”</p><p>“I’m willing to bet my last fucking boonie that what I’ll want to do during <em>and</em> after is fucking throttle your dumb neck,” Karkat mutters darkly, but in the way that John normally associates with him, so he’s not actually about to go nuclear.</p><p>“Whatever,” John rolls his eyes. “Now tell me about the, uh. Bureaucracy, you want to do. After. I’ve got to know this stuff, right?”</p><p>“First of fucking all, bureaucracy is probably the tenth fucking circle of hell, and I want this shit streamlined and working, so your incompetent ass is going to be filming what <em>not</em> to do tutorials if you piss me off more,” Karkat starts. And he’s off afterwards, launching into a tirade about picking back the ruins of the old government and making it better, because it’s not totally useless even if humans are fucking stupidly sentimental about useless shit that doesn’t even exist tangibly, like fucking wrigglers.</p><p>And John lets the dream of that wash over him, too. A better world, and he’s reaching his hand out to shape it.</p><p>(Dirk, he thinks, might even be proud.)</p><p>-</p><p>Dirk looks at the door in front of him, and takes a deep breath before he knocks lightly at it. He doesn’t know what to expect, and he absolutely despises it.</p><p>This is the first time he’s really made use of his purported freedom to roam around the compound- and he only chose now, because the place is distressingly quiet. He would have expected it to be a hive of activity, given the obvious escalation in Lalonde’s planning, but it’s the opposite. Karkat has vanished, John is out, and Roxy has been retreating into herself more and more, despite his encouragement in speaking up to her mother. It’d felt antithetical at the time, but he knows that Lalonde, despite her numerous flaws, wouldn’t react as badly as Mother would.</p><p>It’s the only thing currently reassuring him that it’s perfectly fine to call on her unannounced. Her office, as it were, is closer to what Roxy’s told him is the main area of her mansion, not the nondescript complex that provides temporary housing for the rest of them. They’re connected by a tunnel, but it doesn’t feel like any of the underground locations at Mother’s house; the lighting is a warm yellow, not harshly fluorescent, so it doesn’t hurt his eyes; the floors are faux wood, and it’s comfortably warm. That’s the surprising part. He would have thought she preferred the cold.</p><p>“Come in,” she calls from inside, after a long moment of quiet shuffling.</p><p>Dirk opens the door- and nearly slams into Roxy, who stares at him with wide, reddened eyes, before shoving right past him and away. He has to tamp down on the urge to go after her. No matter how much it aches to see her this upset, he’ll need to deal with it later. Perhaps after she’s had some time to cool down- she didn’t exactly look like she wanted his help either.</p><p>(Dirk feels uniquely out of his depth, but he’ll figure it out. He has to.)</p><p>“Lalonde,” he says, to announce himself. She looks distracted, but it’s difficult to find any kind of joy in that when he knows the cause. Or- he can guess at it.</p><p>“Oh,” she says, and visibly composes herself. “Dirk. To what do I owe the pleasure?”</p><p>He nudges the door shut behind himself, listens to it click. If she’s nervous about being alone in the same room with him, she doesn’t show it. “I need to talk to you about something.”</p><p>“By all means. And- do take a seat. Would you like some tea, as well?” she offers, already turning to the sleek electric kettle on a table against the wall. Dirk considers this for a second, before nodding.</p><p>“Sure. Whatever you’ve got,” he answers. He doubts she has coffee, but tea is probably better for this particular conversation. He sits in the chair directly opposite her, and it creaks slightly under him. The seat is still warm, and there’s another untouched cup of tea in front of him that smells almost distressingly floral. “Maybe just mint, or something,” he amends, eyeing the cat-themed mug.</p><p>“Marquess Grey, for you,” Lalonde says decisively, and sets about brewing it. This means absolutely nothing to him; Mother didn’t exactly drink tea, and Dirk’s always favored coffee for himself, but he has to admit that when she passes him a steaming cup of citrus-scented tea, that he appreciates it. Hers is much darker, and almost smoky. He suspects he might enjoy it too, but it’s not as if he’ll ask her what it is.</p><p>“Thank you,” he tells her, blowing at the surface before taking a sip. It tastes precisely like it smells, and warmth blooms through his chest. It’s strangely fortifying, and it looks like Lalonde is much more focused now, as she sips at her own.</p><p>“What is it that you wanted to talk about, then?” She prompts. Her eyes are intent on him, but the mood is different now, less confrontational. Dirk has to take care to ensure it stays that way; she won’t pick a fight with him, he’s learned, but that’s in public. This is different.</p><p>“I’m aware that you haven’t shared all the details of your plans,” he begins, and this gets him a flicker of a smile. “But, I’ve been able to piece together some of it, and I have a request to make.”</p><p>“A request?” An eyebrow raises. She’s not amused, but he thinks she’s intrigued. Lalonde is both harder and easier to read than Mother- she doesn’t have the same involuntary tics, the flaring of fins, or flashing her teeth, or horns to tilt in a specific way, but her face is distinctly human, and he knows human tells well enough. He’s had to work to eradicate his own. “You’ve already asked a lot of me, when we made our deal earlier. I...don’t suppose you’ve reconsidered any of your terms?”</p><p>“I didn’t ask anything that you wouldn’t have granted,” Dirk counters. “And you know that my proposal is the most elegant solution for afterwards. So no, I haven’t reconsidered.”</p><p>She knows it, but the wrinkle between her brows tells him she still doesn’t like it.</p><p>“Implying that this is something that I might say no to.”</p><p>“It’s something that I expect you to say no to,” he agrees. “The smartest thing to do would be to say no to it.”</p><p>“But you’re asking anyway,” Lalonde says. Her head tilts to the side, curious. “How interesting. You never struck me as the type of person to do anything for which the outcome was unsure. Or rather, for which failure was assured.”</p><p>“I did plenty of things that ought to have failed; I just worked to ensure that they weren’t,” Dirk corrects her. “I’m sure you can relate to that.”</p><p>“Perhaps. Though our ends were opposed, I’d say.”</p><p>He has to give her that one. “Emphasis on were.”</p><p>“Tell me what you want, then,” she orders, but her tone is gentle enough that it doesn’t chafe the way it should. Dirk still finds himself inexplicably concerned. The worst that can happen here is that she’ll say no. She won’t punish him for insubordination or speaking out of turn; Dirk is actually fairly sure that this might be the least controversial thing anyone’s asked of her in the past few weeks, and maybe the most politely phrased. Still. He doesn’t want to overstep, and he has to force the words out of his mouth.</p><p>“I know that you’re planning on doing this in person. I’d like to come with you.”</p><p>There, he’s said it, he can’t take it back.</p><p>He takes a sip of his tea, hurried, and it sears at the roof of his mouth.</p><p>Lalonde is ominously silent, but she’s not smiling, and she’s not laughing- those are good signs, he suspects. Mother or Dave would’ve been mocking him by now, if they were going to say no- or if they were going to say yes, but offer him an impossibility. The fact that he’d been meant to fail has never stopped him before, though. Dirk knows he’s a spiteful thing at heart; there’s no cake sweeter than proving someone wrong.</p><p>“Alright,” she says. It’s quiet, anticlimactic, stated so simply and easily that he almost misses it.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>A hint of a smile plays at her lips now. “I said alright, Dirk. You’re welcome to come along. In fact, I’m glad that you broached the topic with me; I’ll confess that I wasn’t sure how to ask you if you preferred to participate or not, without offending you.”</p><p>Dirk isn’t sure that’s true. Lalonde knows how to play mind games (somewhat literally here) too well for that. Whether or not she actually gives a shit about offending him is harder to determine; she wants him to think that she cares, at the very least, and that’s enough to make Dirk suspicious.</p><p><em>No one cares, not without strings attached</em>, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Dave’s hisses in the back of his head. But it’s easily drowned out by the knowledge that these are strings he knows about- hell, he even offered his wrists up for them.</p><p>“So. That’s it,” he asks, hesitant. “No convincing. You’re not worried that I’ll turn traitor on you, too, that this was all some long con that will end up with your head on Mother’s plate?”</p><p>Lalonde gives him a look that’s almost pitying; it makes his skin crawl. “Oh, Dirk,” she says, soft. “Do you really think that there’s anything you could do after this to make her take you back?”</p><p>He stops breathing. The knife slides in and twists, and Dirk mirrors her smile from earlier. Close-lipped and faultlessly polite, it’s the kind he kept for board meetings. He knows the answer, but it sticks in his throat.</p><p>“Even if my head did end up on her platter, I doubt that it would be because of you, and I doubt that it would be lonely there.” She keeps talking, and he’s tempted for a second to call it mercy.</p><p>“Why do you say that?” He can breathe again now, his voice is as even as he can make it.</p><p>“I suppose you might call it a gamble.” Lalonde pauses to take a sip of her own tea. “Mm. But if you’ll allow me to be blunt here, it’s simply because you’re an asset that we cannot afford to leave behind.”</p><p>Dirk tries, and fails, not to be flattered. He knows the game she’s playing here, buttering him up like that. He hates that it works. He hates that it makes him soften to her, just a little.</p><p>“I’ll do my best not to disappoint, then,” he drawls out.</p><p>“You just might be the least risky of the options I’ve been considering,” she admits freely. “And the only one that I’ve made any concrete decisions about.”</p><p>“I’ve got other risky options if you want to try them, but I s’pose the others will want to hear about those first,” he says, drumming his fingers lightly against the side of his cup. “But you’d need to deal with the Agents in any event.”</p><p>“So I would,” Lalonde agrees. “They’re hardly the risks I was considering. It wouldn’t do to have too many of our eggs in one basket, but then again, I very much doubt that we will get a chance like this again. We have to act quickly, while things are still unstable.”</p><p>“Still unstable?” Dirk asks, raising an eyebrow. “I know that you’ve been busier lately, but I didn’t think you were quite that busy.”</p><p>“Oh, I couldn’t possibly take all the credit for this,” she demurs, but the smug smile on her face says otherwise. So much for modesty. “I’m hardly doing all the work myself; there’s others who deserve just as much praise.”</p><p>“And I’ve yet to meet them,” Dirk tells her easily. “If you want me to start congratulating Captor, I can, but I’ll need to choose the best moment to do it so knocks himself out in surprise. I’m betting that it’s possible.”</p><p>“You two are quite close now, are you?” There’s a trap in that statement, and Dirk musters up his most innocent smile to meet it.</p><p>“We’ve spoken,” he says. “Just as I’ve spoken with Karkat, and Roxy, and John. Just as we’re talking now, come to think of it. My stint here has involved much more socializing than I’d expected.”</p><p>“And much less torture,” she observes. “I find it intriguing that you two have such common ground, given how much you seem to dislike each other.”</p><p>“Why, Ms. Lalonde,” Dirk says, deliberately insincere. “Don’t you know that I deal best with those who hate my guts? Besides, he had a surprising amount of questions relating to some of the things Mother had lying around.”</p><p>He keeps his tone light too, but he watches for her reaction. There’s plenty of secrets that Lalonde hid before- her lineage being one of them- and he doesn’t doubt that there’s plenty more lying around. Not that what Captor thinks matters to <em>him</em>, but it’s shitty to keep that from him, if she knew.</p><p>From the way her smile is strained at the edges, Dirk would bet his shades that she did.</p><p>“I’m sure that was...an illuminating conversation, for the both of you,” she says simply.</p><p>“It was interesting,” Dirk grants. And then, because he’s pushing his luck today: “When did you find him?”</p><p>“I was young, and I had a penchant for going where I shouldn’t,” Lalonde tells him. “I imagine that it was much the same for you.”</p><p>“Not really. I’d noticed that the number of floors didn’t match any of the floor plans- official or unofficial, that is, obviously the entire basement is very much off any kind of record. When Mother and Dave were busy one day, I went looking.” He remembers it still, the way the earth had been rough, the stairs dark even to his eyes. The room itself wasn’t even a room anymore, just a cavern, hollow and hungry and cast in sickly green.</p><p>“Tenacious and methodical,” Lalonde muses. He doesn’t like her tone. “We could have used someone like you, a long time ago.”</p><p>“I think you’ll find that there’s no one quite like me,” he tells her. She’s changing the subject, and he lets her. “Is that the cause for the instability you mentioned just now?”</p><p>Maybe this is impatient, but he’s hungry for news from the outside- anything. He hasn’t had so much as a few morsels from John or Roxy, and not even he can put those together for a bigger picture without any context. Dirk hasn’t been this out of the loop ever, not even as a child.</p><p>“And persistent,” she adds, with another smile. “I suspect we’ll be revisiting the topic of the pilot at a later date, then?”</p><p>“You won’t be revisiting it with me,” he tells her, flat. “Persistence is also one of my best qualities.”</p><p>She just hums, doesn’t answer. Well, whatever. She might not know any more than he does; half of Lalonde’s job is to pretend that she knows more than she does, and the rest is to act cryptic about it.</p><p>“It isn’t solely due to you, but your absence seems to have left a vacuum of power. She’s being more sentimental than I would have thought, about replacing you.”</p><p>Dirk shoots her a wry look, even as he squashes down the complicated tangle of feelings that rises in his chest. Mother misses him, she’s needed him, but- well. Sentiment has always taken a backseat to her goals.</p><p>“Maybe. Or she hasn’t found a suitable replacement yet. No doubt there’s plenty vying for the seat, and few who can actually do more than half of my job,” he offers.</p><p>“I’ve heard that our brother is making it very difficult for anyone who tries,” Rose says. She’s the one watching him like a hawk, now.</p><p>“Your brother,” Dirk corrects.</p><p>The silence between them stretches; something conflicted flickers across her face. She wants to ask more, he can tell.</p><p>“My brother,” she finally agrees, but it comes out as more a question.</p><p>“He’s difficult to deal with in general,” Dirk says. It’s not quite what she wants to hear, but the fact that he’s obliging her at all is enough. “I’m not surprised.”</p><p>“He was always a difficult child,” Lalonde murmurs. “Not to me, of course. But Mother found him to be terrible at listening, terrible at following instructions, terrible at staying still. He tested her patience.”</p><p>“He tests everyone’s patience. Apparently it’s an enduring character trait, but he makes a half-decent sexecutioner when he needs to be. His words, not mine.”</p><p>“Never let it be said that he didn’t like a spectacle,” she says, exasperated in a way that can only ever come from Dave. “That’s gotten worse as he got older.”</p><p>Perhaps he should just throw her a line.</p><p>“You can ask me about him, you know,” he finally says. “Just spit it out.”</p><p>“You are, I think, the only person who might come close to understanding,” she says, but it’s more to herself than to him. Accordingly, Dirk keeps quiet. “But from the way you speak of him- I don’t think that you do. You only ever saw him at his worst, didn’t you.”</p><p>Dirk thinks about a grip on his arm so tight the bones ground together, a sword in his face, Dave’s constant sneer. He thinks about the worn hilt of a katana, the dark points of his shades. He thinks of Dave’s presence, always there, always grating, always ready to hurt.</p><p>“If he discovered rock bottom, he’d keep digging,” Dirk says. It’s too honest, but he doesn’t regret it. “You miss him, obviously. I don’t want to. I don’t even know that I can. He was a pain in the ass at best, an absolute nightmare at worst, and I meant it when I said that the Dave you knew is dead and gone.”</p><p>Or maybe Dave just never could love him, he doesn’t say. That’s too self-pitying, even for him.</p><p>“If you were meant to be my replacement, he never would have taken to that well,” Lalonde says, so delicate that it nearly makes Dirk want to laugh. Since when has Dave ever taken <em>anything</em> well? Especially anything to do with him.</p><p>“It doesn’t matter what I was meant to be. What he did matters. And before you say anything, keep in mind how different things were for us,” he warns her. “I know you want me to tell you that there’s good in him, that there’s some part of him that’s nearly the same. If there is, I don’t remember seeing it.”</p><p>Rose looks at him, solemn. “You would have. Dave was, in some ways, better than I. He would protect me, you know. Throw himself in front of me, when she was angry. When I’d done something wrong. He was brave, and selfless.”</p><p>And you left him, Dirk thinks but doesn’t say, and the words fill the air and weigh it down.</p><p>“He’s not anymore,” Dirk says instead. “He didn’t need to protect me from her. It was the other way around, and even though you might say that he was only doing it because she told him to? He’s not the kind of person who’d have to be <em>told</em> to do that. All he’d need to know is that he wouldn’t get in trouble for it, as long as he toed the line.”</p><p>His hands are shaking, his throat is threatening to close. Dirk stands, putting his tea down. It’s half-finished, but he doesn’t think he can stomach another drop.</p><p>“I should go. Thanks for your time,” he adds, stiffly polite.</p><p>“Dirk-,” she starts, and then cuts herself off. “No. Of course, it was no problem. It was a pleasure speaking with you, in fact.”</p><p>That thought is so ridiculous that Dirk nearly snorts. It’s distracting enough to soothe the tremor in his hands, even if he feels his stomach trying to claw its way out of his throat. He needs to be alone. He needs a locked door and a bright room and a sword in his hand and-</p><p>He needs to breathe. In, out. He’s in Lalonde’s office, he can’t lose it now.</p><p>“I’m sure.”</p><p>He turns for the door, not wanting to see the expression on her face. Stricken, or smooth, whatever it is. He doesn’t want to know.</p><p>It’s only when he opens it, thinking about brothers, about risks, about long-shot plans and anything and everything to distract himself from the sick beat that pounds in his chest, that he stops.</p><p>He’s got one foot out the door, but he turns slightly to glance at Lalonde.</p><p>“When you were talking about risky options and gambles, it reminded me of something. Or, someone. What about-?” he starts, and she cuts him off immediately.</p><p>“No. We’re not going to get him involved.” Her tone is final.</p><p>He looks at her for a moment, and the expression on her face tells him to drop it. Dirk nods just once, and leaves.</p><p>Maybe she does understand, in her own way.</p><p>Dirk doesn’t have the space in his head to think about it, though. He focuses on the floor, counts his steps, one after another, until he’s in a place that’s as safe as he can get.</p><p>(When he opens the door to his room, Roxy’s already there. It doesn’t feel like an intrusion, and the part of him that’s raw and vulnerable and bleeding now, it welcomes her company. He was supposed to comfort her, but here he is, finding solace in her instead. It’s a good thing she doesn’t seem to need him to do anything; she just flings herself at him and squeezes tight, and he squeezes back, all the breath leaving him at once. This is the closest he’s been to another person since he left. Since before.)</p><p>(They’ll talk later. But for now, this is enough.)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There's art for this fic now!! Phlegm did <a href="https://sneezymcphlegmlord.tumblr.com/post/647236577620361216/i-couldnt-stop-thinking-about-that-one-part">this</a> on tumblr, for the scene in Chapter 2, and I literally cannot stop looking at it?? It is SO AMAZING and captures the mood of the scene perfectly, go check it out!</p><p>Also, did y'all catch that semi-cameo ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Lalonde,” Dirk says, raising his eyebrows slightly. She’s here, along with Egbert, and faces that have become familiar now, for better or worse. Karkat and Kanaya and Sollux, all of who have much more say than they might like to pretend otherwise. Kanaya, he had expected from the beginning. She and Lalonde are attached at the hip- not literally, but given the rings that they wear, it’s close enough. Karkat was less of a surprise than Sollux; he’s made an effort to speak to Dirk and has been decently kind when he didn’t need to be, and it’s him that Dirk focuses on, the anger in his face familiar. Captor is just a fucking asshole. But, Dirk supposes, after their conversation, he can accept that the guy is tolerable sometimes.</p><p>“Dirk,” she answers him, warmer than usual. That’s more than enough to get his hackles up- something is afoot, else all of these people wouldn’t be here.</p><p>“Are you just going to fucking stand there and stare, Lalonde? Jesus shitting Christ on a stick,” Karkat snarls. Lately, he’s had a lot of trouble bringing himself to care about that kind of abrasive rudeness- in some ways, it’s refreshing- and because his surly attitude reminds him almost instantly of Jack. It’s a strange fucking thing to be finding comfort and amusement in.</p><p>“Karkat please we will get to it when we get to it,” Kanaya breaks in, soft and soothing as always. “And I think that we are just waiting for John now.”</p><p>For some reason, all the eyes in the room slide to him. Dirk raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“What? Why am I meant to know where he is? He works for <em>you</em>,” he points out, not unreasonably.</p><p>“Oh come the fuck off it,” Karkat says immediately, a finger jabbing right at Dirk. Faintly alarmed, he glances between the blunted claw at the end of it, and the absolutely furious expression on the troll’s face. As far as Dirk can tell, it’s his normal level of furious, though. “We all know about the fucking disgusting canoodling bullshit you two have been pulling.”</p><p>“Canoodling? What are you, four sweeps?” Dirk asks. He keeps his voice appropriately derisive, so no one sees that he’s actually flipping the fuck out. He and John have been spending more time together, yes- plenty more time, in fact, but Dirk hasn’t let him get as close as they were, and he doubts that John <em>wants</em> to. Not really. There’s nothing that Dirk has that he can leverage it to use, after all. “We don’t canoodle. He’s been showing me some terrible movies in the name of exposing me to viewpoints outside of my own. I’m not sure that enjoying Nic Cage is something I can come around to, though.”</p><p>“Join the fucking club,” Sollux mutters, which means they’re agreeing on multiple things now. Terrible. Maybe he should start liking Cage; surely there has to be <em>one</em> good movie with him in it. Surely.</p><p>“While I’m sure your ah, pop culture education is important to the both of you,” Lalonde begins, as if she hasn’t offered any movies that have her taste written all over them (see: pretentious, or historical dramas glorifying rugged individualism, or the Wolf of Wall Street, which Dirk will actually admit to enjoying, despite how much it had reminded him of Dave). She has skin in this game, and he knows it. “It would be difficult for you to make him late, given that you arrived early.”</p><p>“Shocking, isn’t it, how I can’t be in two places at once,” Dirk agrees, mostly to get under Karkat’s skin. “Less shocking that he’s late, though.”</p><p>“John’s grasp on time can be tenuous at best,” Lalonde says simply. “But he ought to be along soon, and I’m afraid that we can’t start without him.”</p><p>“Big day, then?” Dirk tilts his head to the side, waits to see if she’ll actually answer him. They've spoken, yes, but that doesn't mean she's revealed all of her grand scheme to him. Which, to be fair, is the intelligent thing to do.</p><p>She doesn’t disappoint, just offering a close-lipped smile and a single word: “Quite.”</p><p>Dirk does have to admire her commitment to being cryptic. In turn, he doesn’t offer a response other than a nod. But it’s Kanaya who breaks the silence after a mere few seconds.</p><p>“So about this apparent canoodling,” she says, bringing the topic right back around to where Dirk doesn’t wish it to be. “I will admit that I find myself very curious as by all accounts you did not seem the type to canoodle.” She pauses. “And I think that you were right and that we should stop using the word canoodle. We are all grown, we can say fuck.”</p><p>Dirk nearly chokes on air, which is a sight better than the strangled wheeze that comes from the doorway.</p><p>“Why is Kanaya saying fuck?” asks the man of the hour, his face suspiciously red. Red enough that Dirk suspects he’s been here long enough to gather enough context for why Kanaya is saying fuck. But, John has always known how to de-escalate a situation- it’s a tragically impressive skill of his-, and so he continues, “Never mind,” as he takes a seat next to Dirk. Convenient, how it’s the only one left empty. “Sorry for being late, by the way, I was just talking to, uh. Someone.”</p><p>Dirk’s eyes narrow somewhat, but that must mean something to the others- something significant, because Lalonde looks pleased, while everyone else reacts in precisely the opposite way. Egbert’s eyes are lingering on Karkat too, almost as if he’s worried. Hm. This, Dirk suspects, is something he needs to keep an eye on.</p><p>“Thank you, dear,” Lalonde says, sounding all too sincere in her gratitude. “I appreciate it.”</p><p>“Wh-?” John looks bewildered for a split-second, before he turns to the door. “Oh, yeah, I did that too, but I meant- Roxy’s here?”</p><p>It would be comical, how everyone turns to look at her immediately, if Dirk didn’t know why she was here. He feels a rush of pride despite himself; she looks nervous, but determined. And, well. He suspects it’s rather too late to try to teach her a proper poker face, and her strength is in sincerity anyway.</p><p>“I just thought I’d, um. Sit in today,” she says, and- sure, the delivery could use work, but Dirk just stands up to give her his seat before anyone can do anything, and she takes the hint and plants her butt in it before anyone can say anything. Dirk doesn’t quite mind standing; he settles into a spot just to her right, his hands folded behind his back, and he’s struck with the odd surety that in another life, this would’ve happened, too. He would have been there for her in a boardroom, in an office, always one step behind and at her side. Just as he was made to be.</p><p>(But here, they’ve chosen it, haven’t they? And that makes it all the more important than Mother forcing them together like she had with him and Dave.)</p><p>Lalonde’s eyebrows draw together, and that’s the most unsettled he’s seen her yet. Dirk tries not to be too pleased about it; it isn’t as if he’s directly responsible. Roxy’s done all the work here. Still, there’s schadenfreude to be found.</p><p>“Right, then,” she says, after a moment. John takes an awkward seat next to her, and Roxy leans over in the chair to just, nudge her shoulder against his leg. “We’d better get a chair for you, Dirk.”</p><p>“I don’t mind standing,” he tells her. “And we’re already behind schedule as is. We’d better get on with it.”</p><p>“Efficient as ever,” she murmurs. Her amused tone makes it clear that she’s not doing this because of anything related to him, other than he’s made a point that she has agreed with. It’s an impressive skill, one that Dirk isn’t sure he’s mastered yet. “But, yes. We’ve spoken at length about this, and I believe that based on information that we’ve managed to gather, and what Dirk has been able to tell us so far, it would be prudent to make a move soon. Quite soon, actually.”</p><p>This is new information to precisely no one in this room, but John at least looks disgustingly earnest about it, and Roxy’s drinking these details in like she’s dying of thirst and this is the first water she’s seen in days. Good enough an audience to satisfy Lalonde’s dramatics.</p><p>“We’ll be striking at the White House,” she continues. “Of course, measures will need to be taken to ensure that the Batterwitch is there at that time, which we’re currently working on refining-,” Dirk translates this mentally as ‘we have no fucking clue how, so Dirk is going to be manufacturing a lie for this too’, “-and it’ll allow us to neutralize the Carnival as well.”</p><p>“Woah,” Roxy breathes out. “Okay. We’re really goin’ in on this one.”</p><p>“We are,” Lalonde confirms. “The tentative date we’ve set is April thirteenth, and while this might shift, I don’t expect it to do so drastically. Dirk has been here, with no replacement in sight, and we need to press this advantage while we still have it. We’ve been preparing for this for a long time now, but there’s more that needs to be done if we’re going to catch her by surprise and end this- and it needs to be done quickly. You’ve all done remarkably well in the past few months, and I greatly appreciate the efforts and sacrifices each of you has made, especially on my behalf.”</p><p>April.</p><p>Dirk lets out a slow breath. He’s been here for a long time- five months, nearly six now; he still keeps count. But April is practically around the corner. He bites his tongue and doesn’t say that it’s too soon. Dirk can only imagine how poorly <em>that</em> would go over; no, he can’t be doubted now.</p><p>(Or could he? If he was, would he be able to delay-? No. No, there’s no delaying. They will go, with or without him, prepared or not. He recognizes the grim determination in Lalonde’s face; he’s seen it often enough in the mirror, pulled it over his own features like a mask.)</p><p>(This won’t save her.)</p><p>Dirk remains still as conversation flows around him now; more planning, more delegating in earnest. John and Karkat are talking heatedly about something, Kanaya is chiming in, Rose is frowning. Captor is sitting sullen, slouched in his chair. He, Roxy, and Dirk form a triangle of quiet between them, at least until he butts into the conversation with a snide remark about <em>that bitch,</em> which could be anyone ranging from Dirk himself to Mother.</p><p>He should be paying attention.</p><p>(<em>Pay attention, guppy, I’m not gonna bass-k you again</em>)</p><p>He should be absorbing every bit of information here, though he doesn’t know what use it’ll be. He doesn’t even know if he’ll be <em>going</em>, if Lalonde trusts him that much. He doesn’t know if he has a choice about it, either way. The voices build to a crescendo- Karkat is shouting, now, his face a deep red, and despite the fangs and the grey skin and the horns, he looks so human it almost hurts. He’s turned to Rose, disagreeing with her in the most violent way that Dirk’s been able to see. Judging from the reactions- John, pursed lips; Roxy, wincing; Captor, rubbing angrily at his temples; Kanaya, trying to placate- it might be the most violent way in a while. He’s blowing his top. Dirk doesn’t care for the noise.</p><p>His mouth won’t move, when he tries to make it. He feels curiously outside his body, like he’s floating above it and tethered only by the thinnest of strings. Even his own breathing sounds strange, a soft rasp in the throat, against the nose.</p><p>This is it. No matter what, this is it. Lalonde hasn’t said what she’s going to do while they’re there- maybe she’s trying to spare him, and normally he’d sneer at the pity, but for now, the stupid, weak part of him that’s only been growing since he got here, is relieved for it. Because he knows. He knows what it is she’s going to do; it’s fucking obvious, he’s known it this whole time. He knew it when he asked her to go, he knew it from the second she started talking about <em>planning</em>, but now he actually has to deal with it.</p><p>She’s going to kill Mother.</p><p>Just the thought makes him want to heave. It’s inconceivable, except it’s not. If anyone could do it, it’d be her. If anyone had the sheer gall to, it would be her. And here <em>he</em> is, having enabled it. Oh, she would’ve tried had Dirk never said anything, that’s for sure, but she wouldn’t have been able to do this much. Not without him. He could almost laugh for the irony; finally, he’s irreplaceable, invaluable, and here he is, using it to destroy the one who raised him, the only one who really gave a damn about him.</p><p>Except-</p><p>Well. That’s not true.</p><p>Roxy does, now. Karkat does, in his own way, and that’s esteem that Dirk knows he’s earned, not something that’s just been given. And there’s John, but he can’t think about that now, not with everything else.</p><p>It doesn’t make the pill any less fucking bitter to swallow.</p><p>“Dirk?” The sound of his name yanks him back to the present. He blinks twice behind his shades, turns to the speaker. Oh, John. It’s always him, isn’t it.</p><p>“Yes?” he asks, imperious enough that no one will be able to accuse him of not listening. No one except Lalonde, whose eyes are lingering on him like she can tell what he’s thinking. He wants to crawl right out of his skin. She doesn’t say anything, thankfully.</p><p>“Did you have, like. Anything to add?” Oh. Hm, that’s new.</p><p>“No,” he says, and decides to take a wild guess as to what they were arguing about. “I don’t actually know your internal affairs that well, I’ve no input.”</p><p>Captor snorts. “Oh, so now he knows how to shut the fuck up. Wonders never cease and all that.”</p><p>“Great, you remembered that you can talk, too,” Dirk shoots back. He’s still grateful to them for the distraction, not that he’ll say it. This isn’t the time to spiral. He chose this. And it’s not like how he’d ‘chosen’ to do everything else; this, this is all him. There’s no one else to blame. And he’ll endure it just as he did the rest.</p><p>Before Captor can retort, Lalonde cuts in neatly, to ask, “Now, now. Are there any further questions before we proceed?”</p><p>There aren’t any- at least not from Dirk, but half of the other people in the room look contentious about one thing or the other. Dirk ignores them, and instead turns to Roxy, brief.</p><p>She nods, taking a deep breath, visibly steeling herself. Dirk’d tell her not to, that she should’ve done that earlier, but it doesn’t matter. He’s come to understand that speaking up this way at all is a big deal for her.</p><p>She opens her mouth, and she stands.</p><p>---</p><p>The room falls quiet as Roxy stand up, with John noticing first- definitely because she stood, and not because he's been kind of watching Dirk out of the corner of his eye the whole time, and Roxy's just in his field of vision. Nope.</p><p>“I want to go with you,” Roxy says abruptly. Her jaw is set and she looks so determined. She looks so <em>young</em>, for all that she’s not more than five whole years younger than John himself is.</p><p>Rose’s face cracks for a split second, nothing but pure fear bleeding through as she pictures her daughter in the middle of the chaos. John’s pretty sure his own has to look the same. Roxy’s always been far from the action, or working where she does best from behind the scenes, where it’s safe. And sure, John thinks that Rose could be a bit overprotective sometimes, but it’s not like she doesn’t have reason to be. And he knows that Roxy knows that.</p><p>“No,” she continues, sticking her chin out and daring anyone to disagree. “I’m <em>gonna</em> go with you guys. And if you say no, I’ll just sneak out, or- or something, but I’m not gonna get left behind here. You know I can fight, Mom, you know that I’m gonna be helpful there, and you can’t just, lock me away and keep me here forever!”</p><p>“No one is suggesting you get locked away,” Rose says. She’s frowning, though, and John knows for a fact she’s trying to figure out how to convince Roxy to stay somewhere else that’s safe, because what if they don’t win? She’ll never say it out loud, but they’re all thinking it, John’s pretty sure. “Are they?”</p><p>Now, she looks directly at Dirk.</p><p>He meets her gaze evenly, looking- well. John still has no idea what he looks like, other than bored as always. It’s unfair.</p><p>“Hardly. I told her that I would be going. I’ve nothing to say on your parenting,” Dirk answers. Smooth, of course. Except-</p><p>“Wait,” John blurts out. “What do you mean you’re going?”</p><p>“Check the minutes for the last meeting,” is all he gets in response, heavy on the sarcasm. Okay, well, maybe he should have done that, but Rose’d filled him in already, and everyone had conveniently forgotten to mention that little tidbit to him, which seems kind of ridiculous.</p><p>“Oh, because you couldn’t have just told me?”</p><p>“I’m not in the habit of repeating things to people that they already know,” Dirk says, acerbic. “And we’re getting off topic. I think she should be there. If you win, she’ll be a part of it. If you lose, where else is she going to go?”</p><p>Well. He’s got no problem saying it out loud, John thinks.</p><p>“I refuse to put my daughter in danger like that,” Rose tells him frostily.</p><p>“She’s been in danger <em>like that</em> since the day you took her,” Dirk says. “Listen. This is it, isn’t it? You’re planning on throwing everything you have at Mother this time, and if you fail, there won’t be anything left, no matter how many contingency plans you have in place. It’s here and now, and while I dislike the idea of her getting hurt, I think Roxy can make her own decisions. She wants to come along, and we all know that her skills are going to be useful.”</p><p>“I thought you were supposed to be the fucking tech genius,” Karkat snarls, because of course he does.</p><p>“Two people are gonna aaaall over those systems way faster and way better than one would,” Roxy says. “And- no offense, Di- but I’m better at these things than he is.”</p><p>“None taken,” Dirk reassures her, almost amused. And- when did that happen, that he could admit being second best at something? “I prefer working with hardware, and you’re more practiced at offense, so to speak.”</p><p>Ah. There it is. Roxy doesn’t seem to mind, though, just nudging him a little. He sighs, and nudges back.</p><p>“See?” She’s looking at Rose now, though, still sticking close to Dirk like she finds that reassuring somehow, and. Maybe she does. They’re close, he’s not hideous, and John <em>really</em> does not want to examine further than ‘they’re related and even if they weren’t, Dirk is definitely not into women’ as to the cause of why that makes him so uncomfortable.</p><p>“She’ll be with us, then,” Rose says after a long moment. She looks contemplative, and John realizes that she’s actually considering it. No, not just considering it, she’s going to <em>agree</em>. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”</p><p>“Hypothetically speaking, there’s no one else better suited for the job, and I’d prefer her to have my back over anyone else. Roxy’s more competent than the rest of your lot by far. Must be superior genetics,” Dirk says, deadpan in the way that makes John offended out of principle for a second before he realizes it’s actually a fucking joke. Christ. “Hypothetically speaking, I’d also be watching her back, of course. It’s reciprocal.”</p><p>Oh. <em>Oh.</em></p><p>Rose’s eyes dart between them, and John wants to ask her what she’s seeing, and if it’s anything she needs to nip in the bud immediately. Which she definitely would.</p><p>“I’ll consider it,” she finally tells them both. “And- you won’t argue my decision, if it’s a no.”</p><p>Roxy glances at Dirk, and it’s almost cute, the way he gives her a little thumbs up that’s not subtle at all.</p><p>“Okay. Yeah. Yes,” Roxy says, nodding to herself. She puffs out her cheeks, and lets out a huge breath, a little pink in the face as she sits back down. “Okay. Thanks, Mom. You can, uh. Get back to it, now.”</p><p>“Thanks for your permission to continue proceedings, Your Highness,” Dirk tells her. She sticks her tongue out at him the second his head is turned, though John doesn’t think he misses it, judging by the way the corner of his mouth tilts up, ever so slightly. He’s sure Roxy notices that, too. It’s a normal thing to notice.</p><p>Her shoulder nudges into him just once, when Rose turns away, and he nudges back.</p><p>And it's...normal, after that, but John isn't very sure about how well Rose is taking this all. He's distracted for the whole rest of the meeting- partially by Dirk and Roxy suddenly being best friends (and okay, he'd known they were close, they have the whole long-lost sibling thing going, too), partially by the whole Karkat thing, because every single time the deadline is mentioned, he looks more and more thunderous, and John's spoken to Vriska, so he knows she's going to be there, and. Yeah. He's pretty sure Karkat is <em>not</em> going to talk to Rose about this, so John is going to have to get her to talk to <em>him</em> about it. Which, great! Great.</p><p>He gets his chance by lingering a little after the whole thing is done, averting his eyes when Kanaya bends down to kiss Rose before leaving. They're cute, but he can't let himself be distracted by that right now, or by the weird twinge of not-jealousy at people for having like, functioning relationships. That's a weird thing to be jealous of. He could have one, if he tried. If he picked normal people. But, well. That's not in the cards, is it.</p><p>"Rose," he starts, a little awkwardly. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"</p><p>"Oh, well. Of course," she answers. She'd been halfway to standing, but she settles back into her chair, head tilting to the side. "I've a few minutes to spare. Is this about Dirk?"</p><p>Jeez, does everything he asks her have to be about Dirk? He's a professional, sort of.</p><p>"Uh, not this time." He pauses. "Is there something about Dirk that we need to talk about?"</p><p>"No," Rose answers, a little too quickly. "Not at all. Sorry, go on."</p><p>"Right. Uh, I wanted to ask if Karkat had talked to you yet? He's been kind of- weird, about the Vriska thing. And I know that he's not going to let it be a problem, but I think it's bugging him, and-,"</p><p>"John," Rose says, gentle. "He has asked to speak with me about it already. He'd mentioned that it was on your advice, very grudgingly. But the week before she gets here, or perhaps even past her arrival, he'll be doing some other things for me. Important work, of course; I'd never invent busywork for one of the core members of our little group to do simply to keep things running smoothly. Or as smoothly as possible, with her involved." Rose makes a face, briefly. "I would not have asked her to do this, if there were any other options."</p><p>"I know," John tells her. "Honestly. And you know I'm not that torn up about having to talk to her or anything, it's just more annoying when she pretends like the reason she takes ages to message back is because she doesn't have internet. I know she has internet! Her ship has internet! She posts on Finstagram <em>all</em> the time, we all see them." Okay, maybe he's getting a little too worked up about this. John lets out a slow breath, deliberate. "Anyway, I'm pretty sure she'll still be here, she just hasn't told me when?"</p><p>"That's fine." Rose sighs, and her eyes close for a moment. For the first time, John feels like he's seeing her let her guard down; weariness seeps into the set of her shoulders, and there's lines on her face, gathered at the corners of her eyes and framing her mouth, that weren't there when he first met her. "Entirely fine. I- have to trust that she'll show up, of course; she dislikes the Batterwitch as much as we do, if not more, for entirely different reasons. And despite not being formally allied with us anymore, she has proven surprisingly reliable. If unpredictable." Her lips thin, and press together. "I've planned for both her appearing and not appearing, so I suppose we can only ever wait and see with her."</p><p>John still doesn't quite know how or why Vriska left, only that by the time he'd gotten better, she was gone, and that she'd thought he was lame for staying. Sometimes, he thinks that Rose just kicked her out, but he hadn't really believed it, not until now. Vriska isn't exactly the kind of person you can just <em>kick out</em>.</p><p>"Yeah," he agrees. "And. I'm glad Karkat managed to talk to you, too. I was kind of worried that he wouldn't, he seemed pretty mad about talking about all that to me, and I was just trying to give him some advice. I mean, sure, he doesn't really like to take my advice, but still. I was right. Not- that I'm going to tell him that, he would hate it, and I think he probably has enough on his plate right now without me giving him an aneurysm. But maybe later."</p><p>This, at least, makes Rose smile.</p><p>"I would prefer you refrain from aggravating him into a conniption, yes," she says. "At least for now. Later, as you say...who knows. There's time yet for that."</p><p>"Rose," John says, hesitant. "There will be a later. You know that, right?"</p><p>"Temporally, yes. Time won't stop, simply because we fail, if that happens to be the case," she answers. And again, she looks old, worn down, at least until he meets her eyes and finds them burning. "I have waited for so long, to have this chance, John. Dirk has been so much more helpful than I'd thought- and, well. I did not think I'd be able to see any of my family again, if it wasn't at the end of a sword or a trident. And I know that you didn't intend to bring him here, when this started for you, but I want to thank you for it, again. Even beyond the opportunity we now have, the information he's given us, it's. Well, you saw Roxy today."</p><p>"I did, yeah," John nods. "She's grown a lot, hasn't she."</p><p>"It seems that I've missed much of it, too. Not intentionally. But for her to tell me that, in front of everyone, instead of pushing and sulking when I told her no. It takes courage," Rose says. She runs a hand through her hair, though. "Yet, I find myself...reluctant to agree. No, I know what you're going to say. She <em>is</em> old enough, I know. And she's certainly dedicated enough, but. I suppose this is just me being her mother first, instead of a leader first. It's a difficult line to walk."</p><p>"That's good, though," he protests. "It is. I mean, it would suck if you weren't her mom first, you know? She's your kid, Rose. That's important."</p><p>"She is," Rose agrees heavily. "But am I a good mother, if I let her do this? She's an adult, she can make her own decisions, and yet- this is dangerous. I couldn't ask her to come, but to make her stay, to protect her above everyone else, even though we all know the risks- that would be failing both roles, wouldn't I?"</p><p>John doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't think Rose is a bad mom- actually, he has no metric for what a bad mom should be, since his dad raised him and he doesn't even remember his mom-, but he doesn't think she's a bad leader, either. There's that, and there's also the fact that he has not been in her shoes on this one, ever. He isn't sure he wants to. John thinks he could make a good dad, maybe, in the future, but that's in the <em>future</em>, where things are different and better that there's no evil fish lady intent on destroying the world.</p><p>"She's an adult, like you said," John says. He chews on his lower lip for a moment. He's thinking about his dad, about a thousand notes about how proud he was of John, of what a fine young man he was growing up to be. Of notes he'd ignored at the time, but he wishes he'd saved now, just to know that hey, he's not doing the wrong thing. He's trying his best, and that's what matters.  "I think all she really wants, is to make you proud. And I think, uh. I think that she knows already that you <em>are</em> proud of her. She's not doing this because she wants you to notice her, or like. Recognize her, or because she thinks she has to. Okay, not like that. Maybe she does think she has to! But that's because she thinks it's the right thing to do. Roxy's wanted to help out so bad, and, like. Not to criticize or anything," he adds, hastily, "but you've been kind of strict about that."</p><p>"Perhaps I have," Rose murmurs. "And I don't think she understands it. I'm not sure that you understand it, either. It's one thing to ask people to follow you, you know. It's one thing to ask them to lay their lives on the line for a cause they believe in, to rally them around you because you know what must be done, and you know that you are the one who has to do it. It's one thing to be ruthless, and to use that as a tool for good, for what you <em>know</em> is good, and to put it away afterwards when the world is softer and kinder, and does not need it. It's one thing to know yourself that way, but another to try to teach a child that they don't have to be. That there's a better, brighter world, that she'll never have to live through what I did. She can shoot, yes, she can defend herself, she can fight. But she shouldn't have to, and I taught her that. How do I just, put that same gun in her hand and tell her to aim it at someone else, to shoot first?"</p><p>"I don't know," he says honestly. "I don't, and I'm sorry, but- you're not telling her to do that, are you? You taught her so much, and you told her that the world could be a good place, so is it really that big of a surprise that she decided she was going to fight for it? You're not forcing her into it- you're not forcing any of <em>us</em> into this. And, uh. On like, a practical note? I think you'd probably need to knock her out and tie her up to stop her, and she'd still find a way to join in."</p><p>"She's very determined," Rose agrees, and there's a faint smile on her lips, but it's bitter, too. "I don't know why I'm burdening you with this. I already know the answer. I'm going to agree to it. I've always been terrible at denying her. But," and here, she pauses, swallows. "I'm scared, John. Not- of dying, or of failure. But I don't want to put my daughter in front of that monster if I can help it. <em>I </em> don't want to see her again, if I can help it. And Dirk-, he shouldn't have to, either. He shouldn't have to face either of them, but he will, because he knows what must be done. His sense of duty is admirable, isn't it?"</p><p>John isn't sure he'd call that duty. He isn't sure he'd call it anything, but he gets it now, why Rose is so scared. Because the thought of Dirk standing in front of the Batterwitch, in front of his brother again, them hurting him again? It makes his palms sweat and his stomach sick and his heart clench. It's not the same, he knows. He didn't rescue Dirk from there the same way Rose did Roxy, and he definitely didn't raise Dirk as his own, and they're generally just two really different people. But the fear is the same. Of them getting hurt.</p><p>"Dirk can take care of himself," he finally says, and he tries not to sound too unhappy about it. "And he'll have Roxy's back, you know that. She'll be okay, too. And, Rose? It's okay to be scared. I think we all are. But this is it, you know? And we've been scared before. We can do this. We have to do this."</p><p>"You're right," Rose says. She exhales, and stands, and suddenly she's invulnerable again, drawing herself together. "Of course you are. You've grown too, you know. Exceptionally. And thank you, for letting me talk to you about this."</p><p>"It's no problem. Seriously," John adds. "It- helped me, too, I think. A little."</p><p>"I'd hope so. Now, I'd better go find my daughter and speak to her," she says, turning to leave the room. And before she goes, she turns to look at John. "You shouldn't worry either, you know. About Dirk. As you said, he can take care of himself. And if he thought that we would lose, he wouldn't still be here. This is the best chance we'll get, and likely the only one. It will be over soon."</p><p>One way or another, she doesn't say, but Rose looks confident now.</p><p>"We'll win," he corrects her. He even smiles, and when she nods and smiles back, he believes it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Some DirkJohn in your DirkJohn fic? Interesting.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They file out of the room quiet, hollow-eyed with exhaustion as always, Dirk leaving first. Roxy’s right behind him, like she always is, talking a mile a minute this time. She’s excited, that much is obvious to anyone with eyes- and John has to admit, she should be. He's honestly pretty proud of the both of them for working it out; he's not going to take <em>credit</em> or anything, but whatever conversation they'd ended up having, Rose seems more comfortable with Roxy being here, and Roxy is, of course, over the moon. And now, a solid week or so after all that, they've settled down into...some kind of separation between work (he doesn't know what else to call it, okay?) and family.</p><p>And, like? Good for her, good for the both of them. Roxy got what she wanted, Rose<em> listened</em><span>, and she’d been really fucking helpful, he has to admit. </span>John doesn’t feel the pang of uncertainty about seeing her and Dirk together anymore- Dirk might not admit it, but he’d never hurt her, and it's also kind of obvious that he could maybe take some credit, for helping Roxy out, if he wanted to. He doesn't, though, which is very Dirk to do.</p><p>No, now it’s something a lot worse, and he hustles after her, quick to catch her wrist for a moment.</p><p>Okay, it nearly gets him punched in the face, but it’s worth it.</p><p>“Let me walk him back?” he asks, doing his absolute best not to sound desperate. He isn’t really sure he succeeds, because she just looks at him for a second, chewing on her bottom lip, before nodding.</p><p>It’s- weird. To see her protective of him. And to see <em>him</em> protective of <em>her</em>, too. Not that John’s ever thought that Dirk wasn’t like that; he definitely guarded all his dumb Company secrets like some kind of vicious dragon, and he was always on his guard in some way or another against John, but. Well. John’s always known in the abstract that he could care, that he was capable of it even if he refused to acknowledge that. But it’s another thing entirely to just watch it happen in front of him.</p><p>(It’s another thing entirely to know that <em>he</em> wasn’t the one who brought it out, not really, and it leaves him feeling more desolate than it should. It leaves him with an itch under his skin, because for all that they’ve spent time together, for all that they’re talking, Dirk doesn’t look at him the way he used to, and John. John’s supposed to be okay with that. He knows he’s meant to be, but he isn’t.)</p><p>He has to do an awkward jog over to catch up with Dirk; he still walks so fast, like he has ten different places to be before noon.</p><p>“Hey,” John says, lamely. Dirk doesn’t so much as bat an eye at the greeting, just offering him a casual nod.</p><p>“I thought Roxy was going to come with me. She mentioned she might want to hang out, after this.” Well, that’s not a greeting, and now he feels kind of guilty. Which is probably what Dirk wants to begin with, because apparently he’ll do anything to avoid actually talking to John about something real.</p><p>“I offered to walk you back and she said it was fine,” John lies instead. “I think she kind of wants to process, what happened?”</p><p>“Makes sense. It was brave of her,” Dirk says. There’s a hint of approval in his voice. But then again, he’s always liked pushing people and seeing them grow. It makes John wonder what he’s been whispering into Roxy’s ear- and he’s not worried, really, because she has common sense and she knows how to make actual decisions, but it still makes something twist in his stomach. “She told me that she’d wanted to for a while, and if this is the dramatic last stand your illustrious leader has planned, why not let it be now? Besides. I wasn’t lying. Her skills will be invaluable, and I’m sure she can hold her own in a fight. Lalonde wouldn’t have been so careless as to let that slide. She knows better.”</p><p>“To be fair, we can all hold our own in a fight,” John hedges. Speaking as someone who has, actually, fought Dirk before. And- okay, he didn’t win, but he didn’t lose either, and he definitely got a few hits in.</p><p>He gets a contemptuous look for his trouble. Rude.</p><p>“What? It’s not like you’ve been practicing,” John points out. Reasonably, too. “You’re probably out of shape, I don’t think you could seriously judge whether or not anyone else was in fighting condition or not.”</p><p>The contempt only grows, and John knows he’s probably said something <em>really</em> stupid, but that’s not going to stop him, is it?</p><p>Because this? This is a reaction. This is something familiar from Dirk, and maybe he shouldn’t be so happy to see it, but he is. There’s a spark of challenge, the usual disdain he wears so well, and if John still wants to kiss him until it goes away, that’s- not anyone else’s busines, really. He’s not actually going to do it.</p><p>“Mr. Egbert,” Dirk says, in the tone of voice that’s long-suffering and all-too patient, deliberately so. John’s very familiar with it. He imagines people use it to talk to small children and real stupid adults. He should probably be more offended by it, actually. “I can assure you that I’m not <em>out of practice</em>. While I haven’t been able to keep up with my conditioning as much as I’d like to-,” and no, John is not thinking of him shirtless or sweaty or in those honestly kind of indecently tight exercise clothes, seriously, why the leggings?-, “I can assure you that I haven’t just forgotten how to fight. That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever implied in your life. And I’ve had the misfortune of hearing you say a <em>lot</em> of ridiculous things.”</p><p>There he is. John tries, and fails, not to smile.</p><p>“Well,” he says, stealing a glance Dirk’s way. “We could test that?”</p><p>“Test your stupidity? No need to, I already know you’ve broken the idiot scale.”</p><p>“Jeez. No! I meant, your fighting skills. We could spar, or something.” It’s a spur of the moment idea, and in a flash, John knows that it’s a good one. He and Dirk can talk, but- even though John can keep up with all his barbs and insults a lot better now, turn them into banter and recognize when they’re playful and when they’re not, he also has a very bad habit of putting his foot right into his mouth and being misunderstood. They can talk, but he kind of has the feeling that he needs something better, if he’s going to get what he wants out of Dirk.</p><p>Bluh. That sounds so underhanded, even in his own head.</p><p>“Spar,” Dirk says, slow. “Mr. Egbert-,”</p><p>“John.” He’s interrupting, just to be a shit. But John’s practically buzzing at the idea. They haven’t, not for a while. Not for ages before Dirk had come here.</p><p>Is it so strange, that he’s missed it?</p><p>“Mr. Egbert,” Dirk repeats. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”</p><p>“We can go outside, y’know, there’s a whole outdoor area for it, and the weather’s alright,” John tells him. “If you’re worried about space. And if you don’t want anyone to see you getting your ass kicked, that’s fine. We can pick a quiet time, maybe early in the morning? I know you’re always up anyhow, so it should be fine.”</p><p>“It’s not a question of people seeing me,” he says. There’s a thread of confusion running through his voice, rare as anything. “I highly doubt I’m allowed any weapons. And even if it were just hand to hand, I doubt that it would be prudent for you to be seen getting <em>your</em> ass kicked six ways to Sunday.”</p><p>That’s a challenge accepted, if John ever heard one. He doesn’t do a fist pump, because that’d be dumb.</p><p>“No, no. It’s fine. Same logic as Roxy knowing how to fight, you explained it well. And- okay, yeah. I guess weapons are a dumb idea, but we could find practice ones?” John suggests. “Wood, or foam.”</p><p>“Foam? Of course, why not use pool noodles as a strife specibus, what a novel idea. Maybe I can figure out how to garotte someone with them,” Dirk says, maybe a little too serious for John’s liking? He’s not sure how he feels about that, only that if there was a way to strangle someone with a pool noodle, Dirk could probably find out what it was. On the other hand, only one of them had a remotely normal suburban upbringing, so he could totally have the upper hand if it came to pool noodle warfare. Theoretically, anyway.</p><p>“You can, but I was thinking about those toy ones for land?” he says. “I mean, if you want to do the pool noodles, I don’t mind, but you’re going to need to explain to Rose why it is she has to get them for us.”</p><p>“What, she doesn’t have a pool on the property somewhere? I’m surprised,” Dirk tells him. He doesn’t actually sound remotely surprised, but he does sound somewhat wistful. Huh. “Then again, maybe not. She’s never really seemed to be too fond of <em>water</em><span>.”</span></p><p>“Yeah, I wonder why that is,” John says sarcastically. “Honestly, no one here’d use it. We know how to swim- okay, those of us that won’t sink like a rock know how to swim-, and that’s not really something you forget.”</p><p>“No,” Dirk says, after a moment. “I guess not.”</p><p>“Why do you ask?”</p><p>“<span>No real reason. It’s an efficient enough way to do some full-body conditioning, and to increase lung capacity.” That second part is paired with a very deliberate smirk sent his way, and John rubs at the back of his neck. It’s a little bit hot in here, and he’s not going to think about Dirk’s </span><em>increased lung capacity</em><span> right now, thanks. </span></p><p>“No one’s going to be getting in the water with the Batterwitch,” John points out instead. “Like. I know you think we’re all brain-dead, but we’re not going to be doing that.”</p><p>“I like how you think you’d have a choice in the matter,” Dirk says. “But, I suppose that’s fair. M- She’s plenty dangerous on land, and no amount of agility would save you if you were under the waves with her.”</p><p>
  <span>John wants to ask if he ever was. But he doesn’t. He knows that their- truce, their friendship, if he really wants to be bold and slap that label on it, is still fragile and new, and Dirk is so </span>
  <em>prickly</em>
  <span> about some things. His mother being one of them, even though they’re literally plotting to kill her or die trying. </span>
</p><p>“Still, it’d have been nice to have one,” he adds, apropos of nothing. John blinks.</p><p>“<span>I’ve got one in LA. Not that I’ve had a lot of chance to </span><em>use</em><span> it, but,” he trails off, shrugging. God, what is he doing? Inviting Dirk to a pool party at his house, like they’re thirteen and it’s the biggest deal ever? This is ridiculous. Despite all the flirting, John doesn’t want to push too hard- he can’t. He can’t just risk it all and say or do something </span><em>stupid</em><span> and have Dirk shove him away just as hard again. </span></p><p>“<em>Can</em><span> you swim?” Dirk asks this like there’s a reason that John wouldn’t know how.</span></p><p>“I mean. Yeah? It’s not my favorite thing to do or anything, but I learned how. And it’s not exactly something you can forget to do. It’s like riding a bike.”</p><p>“Riding a bike is like swimming,” he corrects. Pedantic bastard. John smiles anyway. “And actually, you’re born knowing how to swim and shit, apparently. So you do forget for a while if you’re not practicing how to float and all that, but the second time’s apparently the charm.”</p><p>“Huh,” John says. “And this is a normal human thing, or is it a you thing?”</p><p>“Mr. Egbert, I know that you’re consistently surprised that I don’t actually have gills, or transform into a giant fish when water’s splashed on me, but I can assure you that this is a normal human thing. Besides, I wasn’t born,” he says, matter-of-fact.</p><p>“<span>Listen, H</span><sub><span>2</span></sub><span>O was a great franchise and it isn’t </span><em>totally</em><span> out of the question that you could breathe underwater. You spent like, ten minutes one time telling me how long you could hold your breath,” John points out. Sure, it’d been a really extended innuendo that had ended with Dirk actually proving it, but that’s not the point. </span></p><p>“Unfortunately, I’m still mostly human,” Dirk says with a shrug. He doesn’t sound distasteful, or disgusted by it; hell, John’s amazed that he’s admitting it at all. And maybe he likes to think that he’s played a part in that, but he has the good sense to keep it to himself.</p><p>“Mostly, huh. I figure you’re probably a bit more human than you want to let on. Y’know, on the inside.”</p><p>Dirk frowns down at his own chest. “I cannot imagine what you think my internal organs look like, but I can assure you that they do, in fact, adhere to the normal human body plan, bro. If you were hoping for your monsterfucker Boy Scout badge, then you’re shit out of luck. Picked the wrong Crocker, in that case.”</p><p>“<span>Okay, listen, boning down with Dave was </span><em>not</em><span> ever an option!” John makes a face at the thought alone. Just because he’s a sex symbol (and John is definitely sure this is because he won’t shut up about being one, so most people have just decided to let him have this), doesn’t mean that </span><em>John</em><span> wants to get with him. If he saw Dave Crocker naked, he’d do the smart thing and run in the other direction immediately. Or like, knock him out with a folding chair or an iron pillow or something. Whatever’s on hand.</span></p><p>“<span>What? I meant mom,” Dirk blinks. His eyebrows flick upwards. “I know I insinuated a lot about you fucking Dave to the light side, man, but </span><em>his</em><span> body plan is also human on the inside. I don’t blame you for assuming otherwise, though.”</span></p><p>“<span>Bluh!” John scrubs his face with one hand, glasses smushing up awkwardly against his eyes. His cheeks are on </span><em>fire. </em><span>“I don’t want to do that either!”</span></p><p>“Her humansona’s a bit weird,” he agrees. “Kind of uncanny valley. But is she not your type? You do like them...dangerous.”</p><p>“<span>Okay, you know what? That has nothing to do with why I don’t want to have sex with your mom,” John says, desperate. This is </span><em>not</em><span> where he wanted this conversation to go. “And we were going to spar, or something, right? Get you back in fighting shape and all that.”</span></p><p>The look on Dirk’s face says he’s just letting John have this, and that he knows he’s won.</p><p>“I doubt that pool noodles are going to be my weapon of choice, but beating the shit out of you with one might be an interesting experience,” Dirk drawls out. His hands tuck into the pockets of his jeans. “But what I was going to ask is- is that even allowed? I know that Lalonde’s allowed me infinitely more liberties than I actually bother to make use of, despite the technology ban, but sparring with you might be pushing it.”</p><p>John frowns.</p><p>“Do you not want to?”</p><p>“I didn’t say that.”</p><p>“Then it’s fine. It’s not like we’ll do any real damage to each other. We’re- pretty okay at that by now.”</p><p>Dirk looks at him for a long moment, inscrutable, and John finds himself holding his breath.</p><p>“Okay,” Dirk finally says. “I’ll need to change. And you probably will, too.”</p><p>
  <span>John has to stop himself from smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. As is, he’s pretty sure he’s </span>
  <em>way</em>
  <span> too enthusiastic about this. But that’s fine, too.</span>
</p><p>“Great,” he says instead. “I’ll meet you outside your room, and we can head over together.”</p><p>-</p><p>Dirk spins the wooden staff in one hand, frowning vaguely down at it. He’s had the chance to change, at least- and he’s grateful for it; the jeans that have become his everyday attire are still not something he’d choose to move around in, and the sweats he’s changed into are infinitely more forgiving.</p><p>As is the staff, although he has to adjust to the different weight of it in his hand. It’s almost too light, but the wood fits his hand well, and it’s smooth. No chance of splinters, unless he cracks it open on Egbert’s hard skull. Another spin, and it whistles through the air. This is the closest thing he’s had to a real weapon since he’s gotten here.</p><p>Well, perhaps he should count the kitchen knives, but he doesn’t. That entire evening was different, and for all that he’s tried to put it out of his mind since, his conversation with John keeps bubbling up whenever they so much as look at each other. He’s sure it’s only happening for him; either Egbert’s gotten very good at lying recently, or he’s not thinking about it. Dirk knows which is more likely.</p><p>“Are you just going to do fun tricks with that?”</p><p>Speaking of.</p><p>John’s stretching out in front of him, and Dirk has to actively work to prevent his gaze from lingering too long where it shouldn’t. He’s showing more skin than Dirk has seen since before he got here, and it’s just <em>arms </em><span>and his legs from the knee down, because for some reason, he’s decided basketball shorts and a tank-top (similar in style, but infinitely more...Slimer than Dirk’s own) were the way to go. Maybe it was; it sure shows off his shoulders, too, and the lines of muscle in his arms as he raises them up above his head. John’s not toned, exactly, but he’s always been strong. And Dirk, unfortunately, has always admired that. </span></p><p>Still, he’s not sure this is appropriate attire, but he’s not going to complain about it. Instead, Dirk focuses on his weapon of choice, which- well. Maybe the fucking pool noodle had been an entirely serious suggestion, because Egbert is carrying one of those huge, fake rubber hammers, the head of it resting against the ground as he hangs on to it by the long handle. John’s foot nudges against it, accidentally, and it gives out a pathetic squeak. No wonder the clowns hate him.</p><p>“<span>I’m thinking about the consequences of braining you with this,” Dirk deadpans instead. He does stop the spinning. He’s always been able to adjust quickly. “</span><span>Did you rob a carnival game for yours?”</span></p><p>John pouts. Honestly. It’s ridiculous. “No! I won it fair and square. Isn’t it cool?”</p><p>“If you looked in the dictionary for the word ‘cool’, that would be under antonyms,” Dirk tells him, deadpan.</p><p>“<span>Bluh, what </span><em>ever</em><span>.” He rolls his eyes too, though he gives the hammer a few practice swings. If Dirk didn’t know better, he’d say that Egbert was showing off. The only reason he </span><em>doesn’t</em><span> think that is that John doesn’t actually need to. Dirk is pretty aware of what he can and can’t do.</span></p><p>
  <span>This doesn’t stop him from watching how effortlessly he does it, though, and as much as Dirk wants to tell himself it’s because the difference in weight between this and his </span>
  <em>usual</em>
  <span> hammer must throw him off, he knows it’s only part of why he’s looking. It makes something uncomfortable settle in his stomach; he shouldn’t be doing this at all. Once was bad enough, but twice?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(It’s not twice, though, some stupid, traitor part of himself whispers. Because this is distinctly more </span>
  <em>flushed</em>
  <span> than it is pitch, Dirk thinks. It’s altogether difference from the tarry resentment and hate he’d felt before, the need to push and shape and challenge until John was </span>
  <em>worthy</em>
  <span> as a rival, until </span>
  <span>they could tear each other apart with ease and savor every minute of it like the animals they are, on the inside. But maybe that’s just him, now; John’s too soft for that, too kind. Too human. And for all that Dirk is learning, pretending, he’ll never manage to be like John.)</span>
</p><p>(As always, his inadequacy stings.)</p><p>“<span>Let’s get started,” he says. “</span><span>We’ll go- well. Until we’re tired?”</span><span> Dirk doesn’t bother not trying to sound excited. This will fix things, he’s sure; this will clear his head, burn the excess energy and grind it down to nothing but ash. </span><span>John </span><span>nods in confirmation, beaming at him. The fire flares brighter.</span></p><p>
  <span>D</span>
  <span>irk doesn’t give him a chance before he flash-steps in with a sweeping blow of his stick. John blocks it, predictably; Dirk suspects he’s gotten slower, and it’s not the kind of blow that would have landed on him before. The force of the impact judders up his arm and thrums in his bones. The strange numbness that comes with it has never felt so good.</span>
</p><p>“Until you’re tired, maybe, if that’s all you got,” John says. He rushes Dirk, and- hm, he’s gotten faster, good, he’s always had to work on his speed. Of course, he’s still not as fast as Dirk is; it’s easy to fling himself out of the way, aim a sweeping strike at his legs to try and trip him up.</p><p>“Or until you fall and break your pretty face,” Dirk counters. He puts some more distance between them. He has a good feel for the weight of his stick now, but this? This is still foreplay, compared to what they used to do. John laughs outright, and comes at him again, with a wide swing aimed right at his side.</p><p>Dirk’s body still knows what to do.</p><p>He doesn’t even have to think before stepping forward, bringing the wood up to block the strike. Both their weapons groan at the impact, and John pushes his advantage for a moment. He wants to see Dirk sweat, it seems, and Dirk can oblige him there. He pushes right back- and John’s gotten stronger, too, even better- and then flash-steps away, letting John stumble to the side.</p><p>
  <span>Out, then in again, once he’s off-balance, and there’s the solid </span>
  <em>thwack</em>
  <span> of wood against flesh.</span>
</p><p>“One zero,” Dirk says, smug. He’s still got it, even if his conditioning might not be up to par. But with enough practice here, maybe a good set of laps and some inquiries about other facilities for strength training? He’ll be back in shape.</p><p>“<span>Huh,” John frowns. And then twists to smash the hammer right into the side of Dirk’s head. It squeals </span><em>right</em><span> in his ear, obnoxiously loud, but the blow only dazes him for a moment. It nearly knocks his shades off, though, and he has to scramble to shove them right back on. “I think that’s one each, actually. Wow. You might need to work on your defense there!”</span></p><p>“You asshole.” Two steps back, more distance. Dirk knows he’s saying that to get under his skin. It’s working. He hasn’t missed the feeling, though. Not even a little. “I didn’t know that you’d learned to fight dirty.”</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t even look ashamed of himself, just rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly and shrugs. “Well. I </span>
  <em>always</em>
  <span> knew how, but it wasn’t like I’d do that to you with a </span>
  <em>real</em>
  <span> hammer. Even if you’d probably survive, I guess. The hammer might break before your skull did? Or, you’d heal up just fine, even if your brains were scrambled.”</span>
</p><p>“It’s like you hit yourself with it and scrambled your brains,” Dirk shoots back. He shouldn’t, he knows that. He doesn’t need to add bantering with Egbert to the list of regrets, and he’s been doing a good job not taking that too far. This is already too close to what they were.</p><p>But it’s not, at the same time.</p><p>John’s smiling wider than he ever did before, as he comes in for another swing. And Dirk is pushing himself harder, too. There’s more force behind these blows than there has been for a long time, since their first fight, maybe, and isn’t it funny, since now they’re not actually going to hurt each other?</p><p>
  <span>Someone, somewhere, is laughing at him, Dirk knows it. But he can’t bring himself to </span>
  <em>care</em>
  <span> right now. This is a familiar dance for the both of them, trading taunts and hits. He knows how his own body moves, it feels fucking </span>
  <em>great</em>
  <span> to do something like this again, where the fight is even, where he can win, if he works for it. It feels good to let his body do what it does best. Dirk has always been a weapon, and his edges haven’t dulled in his time here.</span>
</p><p>Neither have John’s, though, and that’s as much of a treat to discover. He’s less cautious, but he’s taking this more and more seriously, the longer it draws out.</p><p>“Two one.” The end of his stick to John’s throat.</p><p>“<span>Two </span><em>two</em><span>,” snickered out a minute and a half later, after a piercing shriek of rubber against his leg.</span></p><p>“<span>Three two,” is the flat of the wooden sword slamming into John’s solar plexus, making him wheeze, and “three all,” comes right after, the hammer swinging up to catch him on the chest with another squeak. He really, really hates that thing. He does not, however, hate it enough to let it stop him from wanting to do this again.</span></p><p>“<span>We should do this again,” John calls out, between parries. His hammer squeaks fucking obnoxiously with each one, like it’s some kind of knock-off clown. Dirk allows himself to fantasize, for just a moment, about taking the damn thing and bonking </span><em>him</em><span> on the head with it, just to see how he likes it.</span></p><p>“<span>Whenever you’re free, then,” Dirk answers. He smirks in the way he knows annoys John the most, and with a twist, jams the butt of the stick right into his chest. Another wheeze. “That’s four two now, isn’t it, but I’m more than happy to see how many points I can get on you, Mr. Egbert. And to think this is me rusty.”</span></p><p>John bares his teeth, and moves faster than Dirk’s ever seen him do before. A swing, and his stick has gone flying, and- well.</p><p>Dirk could get it. He knows roughly where it’s landed.</p><p>But he doesn’t.</p><p>Instead, he grabs at John’s forearm and yanks him close enough to deliver a punch right to his face with his other hand. He’s careful to temper it so nothing crunches, no glasses are broken, but John still curses and holds his nose as Dirk darts out of reach. His hands remember the feeling of John’s skin against them, warm and sweat-slick, and he flexes his fingers behind his back.</p><p>“Maybe we should stop counting,” he suggests.</p><p>“What was that for!” John demands. He looks so indignant, and Dirk is enjoying it far more than he should. He’s still bursting with energy, his chest light. “You know what? Never mind! If you want to play it like that, fine!”</p><p>Dirk doesn’t have time to make fun of him for pouting over this; John is flinging himself at him again, and he barely has enough time to dodge.</p><p>
  <span>It’s- messier, after that. Dirk is more than proficient at hand-to-hand combat, and John is decent even if he says he doesn’t like it much, and with his newfound nonchalance towards playing dirty, Dirk is going to be bruised all over the next day. But, he reflects, as he blocks a punch and winces at the impact, it’ll be better than any of the others he’s had. This will be </span>
  <em>earned</em>
  <span>. And he’ll have left his mark on John in return. His body sings, even if he’s filthy and sweaty and going to be sore tomorrow. It’s worth it, and every time they touch, it feels like there’s a current humming between them. Dirk has to work harder to ignore this.</span>
</p><p>They’re both breathing heavily by now, and Dirk knows that he’s getting tired- earlier than he would have, before, but his stamina will return with enough practice. John is favoring his left side, and Dirk takes advantage of that as he rushes in one more time, and knocks John right off his feet and scrambles on top of him.</p><p>“Got you,” he breathes out, as John writhes under him, one hand smacking up to try and get him off. Dirk grits his teeth and leans in close. “Stop moving.”</p><p>And John does, finally going limp under him.</p><p>
  <span>This shouldn’t feel as practiced as it does. It shouldn’t feel as </span>
  <em>right</em>
  <span>. None of their fights have been like this- not serious, but intense; not real weapons, but playful banter that faded as their concentration grew. They weren’t fighting to hurt each other, or to push. This was- Dirk doesn’t know what this was, or what it is, or what they’re doing now, and the magnitude of that lands heavily on his shoulders again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks down at John, as if he’ll have any of the answers, and John’s looking back, his eyes wide. He’s still pinned. Dirk is still on top of him- in fact, Dirk doesn’t want to </span>
  <em>move</em>
  <span> from on top of him. John is warm, he can feel the movement of his chest, practically hear the pounding of his heart. His face is flushed and dusky, his lips parted to reveal a sliver of teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dirk’s arm is pressed flush against his throat, the fingers of his other hand curled in John’s shirt. John could move, theoretically, but he won’t be able to push Dirk off without a fight. He’s not fighting, though. </span>
  <span>He doesn’t even look like he wants to be.</span>
</p><p>They’re closer than they have been in a long, long time- since before Dirk got here, he thinks-, and his body remembers just how well they fit together. John is a little cooler than he is, under him, and Dirk can make out the individual beads of sweat sliding down his temple. Their noses are almost touching. Dirk watches John watch him, watches the way his gaze slides down lower to linger on his mouth as they share the same air, breaths passed between them.</p><p>Pressure on his hip, but not to throw him off, or knock him off balance. No, this is John touching him for the sake of touching him, and it makes his heart skip a beat. John’s hand is gentler than Dirk has been touched before; he can barely feel it through the pants.</p><p>“<span>Dirk.” It comes out as a plea, </span><span>it lingers in the air. Dirk shivers, even though he doesn’t mean to; this is a tell, and he knows that John sees it. He knows Dirk much better than he wants to. </span><span> “Dirk,” he says again, </span><span>and all Dirk can do is watch the way his mouth shapes his name, and think about kissing it off his lips. Again. All this time they’ve spent together, all the distance he’s been so careful to hold between them, all the effort he’s gone to, making sure that he doesn’t close it- it seems like nothing, now. It </span><em>was</em><span> for nothing, because John is still here, beneath him, and the way he’s looking at him, those fucking blue eyes wide and wanting and so trusting, like Dirk couldn’t just kill him like this, crush the breath right out of him.</span></p><p>He wouldn’t, though. And he knows that, and John knows that. It makes him sick to even think about.</p><p>He can’t speak around the knot in his throat.</p><p>It would be so easy to lean in and kiss him. And-</p><p>John would let him.</p><p>After everything, despite everything, <em>John would let him</em><span>. </span></p><p>In the space of two heartbeats, John leans in, and Dirk-</p><p>Dirk leans away.</p><p>He can’t do this.</p><p>
  <span>What is he thinking, what the fuck was he </span>
  <em>thinking-</em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>“Sorry,” he mutters, and he’s out of the room in a flash. He tries not to let it feel like a retreat, or a defeat, but he can’t erase the stricken look on John’s face as he moved away.</p><p>The silence of his own room is accusing in its own way; the cold air in it makes him shudder. It doesn’t help the confused swirl of emotion in his head.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Another day, another meeting.</p><p>Or, more accurately, another meeting in a series of apparently infinite meetings, which even <em>Karkat</em><span> has to be getting tired of. Surely, he has to be, given how fucking uncomfortable he seems to be today; he’s hunched low in his chair, his shoulders tense and unhappy to the point where Lalonde even leans over to murmur a question that Dirk pretends not to hear, and an answer that’s audible to just about everyone in the room. Karkat is, apparently, totally fine with being here, and it’s just the once, to get it over with.</span></p><p>
  <span>Add that to the extra chairs in the room, and Dirk suspects that they’re having company. What company is so important, he isn’t sure, but he doubts he’s going to like it. He barely likes running into Carapacians, or any assorted trolls or humans in this place, and all </span>
  <em>they</em>
  <span> do is look at him with varying levels of awe, hate, or suspicion. </span>
  <span>Well, some of the Carapacians chitter at him, and he answers in turn, unfailingly polite. They’re alright, at least, although </span>
  <em>very</em>
  <span> preoccupied with the fact that he’s been cooking for himself, and also that he’s not wearing a suit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t fidget, though. Whatever this is, he can handle it. No, not can. He </span>
  <em>will</em>
  <span> handle it. Somehow, he’s the one that’s the least visibly on edge here; even Roxy is biting at the corner of her thumb. Dirk has to fight the urge to tell her to stop it. John, on the other hand, is staring so intently at Karkat that Dirk is fairly fucking sure he can’t be helping in any way, shape or form.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t say anything about that, either. Dirk has no idea how to approach him, after that first time in the gym. Oh, he’s seen John around, but every time he does, his mouth floods with the bitter taste of his own idiocy, and his own cowardice. And something that tastes a lot like shame. </span>
  <span>John doesn’t bring up what happened, and Dirk’s grateful for it and furious about it all at once- how can he just ignore it? Did it not mean anything?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The obvious answer is that it didn’t, and it doesn’t, and Dirk needs to believe that. He also needs to stop thinking about it, stop wanting to touch him all over again. That’s going to get him nowhere, and this is </span>
  <em>not</em>
  <span> the time. If it were up to him, it would never be the time, but that’s beside the point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The quiet is suffocating, </span>
  <span>and it just lets him marinade in his own thoughts. Dirk is almost grateful for the way the door slams open in a loud bang that shatters the unease in the air, even if it makes him reach for a sword that’s no longer at his hip.</span>
</p><p>Two trolls walk in, and one Carapacian, draped in dusty wrappings. The Carapacian waves, and takes a seat, and- okay, fuck, he’s kind of cute. Everyone around visibly softens as they look at him, and Dirk understands why. The raw charisma on this lil dude? He can appreciate it, even without saying two words to him.</p><p>(That, and he looks at Dirk kindly, not like anyone else. There’s no pity, just mild, clear-eyed, and well-meaning curiosity. He would choke up, if he were a lesser man.)</p><p><span>But his oddly calming aura doesn’t soothe them for long, tension seeping right back into the room as one of the trolls clears her throat. The taller one, with a mane of wild hair, an eyepatch, and- a robotic arm? Well, Dirk already knows </span><em>she’s</em><span> bad news.</span> <span>No one with an eyepatch and a robotic arm has ever been good news.</span></p><p>But the other-</p><p>He knows her.</p><p>
  <span>Oh, he knows who </span>
  <em>she </em>
  <span>is.</span>
</p><p>“Terezi Pyrope,” says one of the most promising neophyte legislacerators around- and one who’s known to be an all-around pain in the ass, if she so chooses to oppose you. She looks younger than she should, with her glasses tinted red. He doesn’t have his shades to pull up all the data on her, and he wishes he did. He’d never met her before, but she’d been flagged as a potential issue for a long time. Of course, Mother hadn’t thought much of it, saying that justice was <em>reel</em><span> fin-ckle, buoy, don’t you worry yo pretty lil pan aboat it. Dirk had accepted it, though he hadn’t understood it- and frankly, he still doesn’t. But that’s Mother’s problem now, not his own.</span></p><p>Pyrope darts in quickly, and before he can shove her away, cool grey fingers are gripping his chin iron-tight, and-</p><p>What the <em>fuck</em><span>.</span></p><p>That’s the equally cool, wet rasp of a tongue, dragging right against his cheek, and Dirk doesn’t bother to hide the sheer revulsion that twists his face, because- again. What the fuck.</p><p>He aims to elbow her in the gut, but he only manages to graze her, and she darts away looking all too smug as she leans on her cane.</p><p>“Mmmmm,” she hums, her husky voice satisfied. “Just like orange creamsicle.”</p><p>Dirk has nothing to say to that. He’s far too busy scrubbing his face clean with his sleeve. God, he is going to shower immediately after this.</p><p>“Sorry,” John whispers from next to him, though the traitorous bastard sounds more amused than anything else. “She just- does that.”</p><p>“She’s practically feral,” Dirk mutters darkly. “Not even Dave’s that disgusting.”</p><p>This is a patented lie. Dave has licked <em>much</em> worse than Dirk.</p><p>Pyrope just cackles, until she’s unceremoniously shooshed by an elbow to her side. This one, Dirk notes sourly, actually connects.</p><p>“Vriska Serket,” the owner of the elbow says, and her smile is all fang. Dirk appreciates that. “I’ve been the one getting this show on the road instead of sitting here like some boring loser.” She smacks her metal fist into the curve of her flesh palm, hard enough that Dirk knows it’ll sting. “I’d say I was pleased to meet you, but then I’d be lying.”</p><p>That’s fair enough. Dirk knew her face before this; she’d never bothered hiding it, her mug is plastered across the flags of every single ship in her little alliance. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that Mother’d never really seen her as a threat, just entertainment. She’d always said that they’d get along, and he won’t say that either. Not when he suspects all his information about the nautical resources has been heading her way. Again, not quite his problem.</p><p>“Likewise,” Dirk tells her. He’s lying through his teeth, and not just because of her history with the Company. She can tell, he thinks, but she doesn’t care. He respects that well enough. “Are you an exciting loser, then?” Vriska just grins wider at that.</p><p>“Ha, I <em>knew</em><span> he had to have some bite to him, not just bark. Pay the fuck up, will you? I told you, I always win.” This, addressed to Pyrope, who hisses something in Alternian too fast for Dirk to really translate beyond spiders being involved, and shoves a couple of coins her way. Antique Caegars, apparently, since Serket holds one up to the light to inspect it. The eyes on the head side have been slashed out.</span></p><p>Pyrope’s toothy smile is very, very white. Dirk offers one of his own.</p><p>“I assure you, there’s plenty of bite involved.”</p><p>Meanwhile, John groans a bit. He’s looking a bit flustered, there, and Dirk raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“Ugh, I should’ve known you two would get along,” he grumbles. “She’s a huge bitch, and you’re a huge asshole.”</p><p>Getting along. Is that what they’re doing? It might be, in some definition of the term.</p><p>“Aww, come on there, Egbert!” Vriska slings an arm around him, pulls him close enough that he’s pressed flush against her side. Hm. “No need to have such a loooooooong face, ha, we’re going to finally get some shit done, and it’s great to have another fucking doer around instead of someone who’ll keep toeing the line for the ‘greater good’ when what really matters is winning this thing.”</p><p>Dirk isn’t quite sure what to do with the conspiratorial wink she shoots him- he’s not going to wink back. But he’s also not going to defend Lalonde. Serket’s right; there’s plenty more that could’ve been done if Lalonde was willing to make more sacrifices.</p><p>Also, she’s not letting go of Egbert, and <em>that</em><span> is interesting. As is the touch of red in his ears. His embarrassment from earlier makes a lot more sense now, although Dirk isn’t sure how he feels about this particular picture.</span></p><p>“Good thing we’re going to win it soon, then,” he says, with far more confidence than he feels. It’s a good thing he’s been good at faking it.</p><p>The words are dead in his mouth.</p><p>Now isn’t the time to dwell on that.</p><p>“Justice,” Pyrope pronounces, with a strange weight, “will be served.”</p><p>Well, he doesn’t like the sound of that either, nor the way that she’s looking at him- no, looking through him, her unseeing gaze unerringly trained on his face.</p><p>“Fuck justice,” says the one next to her. Serket isn’t looking at him, but she’s a ball of tightly coiled energy, her fingers tapping on the table. “We’ll get what we go there for, and I’m not going to settle for a single thing less. She thinks she can run shit into the ground like this? She thinks she’s <em>all fucking that</em><span>? She’s not, and we’re going to make sure she knows it. Some queen she’s meant to be, hiding on this </span><em>dump</em> <span>without even bothering to try to make it back.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Dirk isn’t sure that’s it, but he clamps his mouth shut firmly. If this is another test, to listen to her and stand by as she talks shit about Mother, he can handle it. It’s not like </span>
  <em>he</em>
  <span> knows why, exactly, she’d decided to stay on Earth.</span>
</p><p>“Hey! Our planet’s not that bad,” John grumbles.</p><p>“<span>Ohhhh, Egbert, you’re just as naive as ever,” she laughs. It’s a particularly annoying laugh, if anyone asked Dirk. Probably for the best that no one has. “</span><span>Makes me just wanna pinch those cheeks. Not!”</span></p><p>“It’s good to know you still can’t tell a joke, Vriska,” John tells her. “And you leave my cheeks alone. All of them.”</p><p>“The implication that you’ve got more than the standard set of cheeks is concerning,” Dirk adds, just to fuck with him. Serket flashes her fangs.</p><p>“And we’d both know all about that, huh? C’mon, Eggy boy, tell me where you’ve been hiding those goods.”</p><p>Dirk flashes his own in response, but he doesn’t rise to the bait otherwise.</p><p>“No!” John smacks at her hand, and frowns at the both of them. “I can’t believe you’re choosing <em>now</em> to not be serious, I’m actually kind of offended.”</p><p>“Rude. I’m plenty serious,” Dirk drawls out. “I just thought I should try to socialize more. These are new people, you know. I’m interested in them.”</p><p>“I bet you are,” Vriska purrs. Dirk is not sure whether she intends it to be seductive or not, but she’s leaning awfully far forward and there’s no knife in her hand to back it up, either way.</p><p>“<span>Well,” Lalonde says, before Serket can keep talking. </span><span>“Now that everyone seems to be well-enough acquainted, and on their best behavior-,” this is emphasized by a deliberate look around the room, although Dirk isn’t sure whether he ought to be offended or not, by how Lalonde’s gaze lingers on the ceruleanblood instead of him, “-we ought to get started.”</span></p><p>
  <span>I</span>
  <span>t’s a testament to her authority- and Dirk is still willing to say that she not as good as she should be, but she’s much, much better than he was originally willing to give her credit for- that everyone in the room settles down to listen. She takes a sip of water, deliberate, in the perfect silence.</span>
</p><p>Never let it be said that she’s lost her penchant for the dramatic.</p><p>“<span>We have a little over nine days left, and we’ve decided not to move the date. According to all the reports I’ve received, we’re on track to be ready in time, if not early, and I see no reason to postpone it. The plan of attack will be simple,” Lalonde continues, and Dirk refuses to let his attention stray. He has always done what was necessary- and he still clings to that belief, even if he now knows that his view of what was necessary wasn’t exactly right. And he’ll continue to do it. He has to, he’s promised to, and for all that Lalonde has her end of the deal to uphold </span><em>after</em><span>, there won’t be an after if they do nothing.</span></p><p>Karkat picks up the thread where she left off, standing up to speak. He’s still not looking at Serket, his eyes trained on Pyrope instead. It’s more concerning than interesting at this point; they need to work together, at least for this. “One group is going after the fucking clowns. That’ll be you, Serket, taking on their heaviest fucking hitters, so your glory-seeking ass should be happy with that.”</p><p>“Might as well send your strongest along there, and who else is that but me?” She asks, ignoring the insult entirely. Well, maybe Dirk shouldn’t be too worried about them working together.</p><p>“Who else is as big of a mindfuck than them,” Karkat snarls back, and there’s sweeps of anger behind that. Roxy shifts next to him, frowning, but the way she doesn’t even try to intervene tells Dirk that it must be justified. “Any-fucking-way. You take your crew and handle them, and you’d better fucking make sure we don’t hear a single goddamn honk around. The intel on the defenses is rock fucking solid, not even you could fuck this one up.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>please.</em><span>The information better be good, but you wouldn’t know your wastechute from your horns if you were staring in a mirror.” She turns away from Karkat, and he flushes a deep, ugly red. Sollux, wonder of all wonders, brushes one hand against his cheek. That explains a lot, but Dirk doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because her attention snaps right to him. “So</span>, boy wonder? Just how good is it?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow. She reminds him of nothing so much as Dave right now, insolent to the very last. Although she’s probably far more dangerous; Dave can be cunning, but he doesn’t usually bother with it. This one’s clearly used it as a weapon all her life. “Are you going to finally prove you’re worth your salt now, give us some <em>real</em><span> info on the security deets?”</span></p><p>It’s a highblood expression- a seadweller one, actually, with the accent she inflects on it, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Lalonde stiffen. He’s not sure this is another test in particular, so much as her being fucking arrogant. He’s starting to see why Karkat’s still hunched over himself in the corner, and why Kanaya’s- stress-glowing, it seems. Okay. That’s new; Dirk’s only gotten a few flickers out of her before.</p><p>“I’ve given you plenty of information on other things,” he tells her. However reminiscent as she is of Dave, there’s quite literally no one as annoying as his older brother around. Nor as bloodthirsty. He resists the urge to tell her that she’s been a big fish in a small pond her whole life, and that she doesn’t know the half of it. Mother would eat her alive, and Dirk’s cut his teeth on a whole lot worse than her, no matter how much of a pain she’s apparently been to the Company. But that’s not exactly conducive to good relations, or best behavior, or reassuring anyone that he isn’t getting cold feet, as if he ever got those. Metaphorically, that is. John has complained before about the literal cold feet. “But if you wanna test me, by all means. It’ll need to wait until after this, though; y’know how fussy Lalonde gets.”</p><p>Serket grins; she hasn’t missed his own tone in response. “She’s not even the worst. Maryam over there next to her? Miss Fussyfangs if I ever saw one. Wouldn’t stop meddling in a single thing, it was ridiculous.”</p><p>Dirk is...not so sure how to respond to that. He isn’t surprised by it, but Karkat was the one who always struck him as the nosier of the three trolls he’d met before.</p><p>“Oh my fucking <em>god</em><span>, Serket, do you ever shut the fuck up?” Speaking of. Karkat scrubs a palm across his face, clearly aggravated. Well, more so than usual. “This isn’t the fucking Vriska Serket Variety Show, we have better, way more important things to deal with than you and your self-absorbed, delusional horseshit. Other people need to get their fucking sentences in without worrying about your fat head trying to emerge from your fucking wastechute to butt in there.”</span></p><p>John snickers, and the sound is explosive in the silence; Serket turns to glare at him, her eye narrowed to a slit, and Dirk might not be one to talk when it comes to being pitch-inclined for John Egbert, but if she keeps looking at him that way, there’s a decent chance she’ll lose the other eye. In a freak accident, of course. Nothing that he, personally, would cause.</p><p>
  <span>Still. He takes the chance to speak before anyone else can, drawing her attention away. They </span>
  <em>do </em>
  <span>still have work to do, after all.</span>
</p><p>“The locks will be different, no matter what. She- they both know that I wouldn’t talk, and it was staged to make it seem a struggle, but it’s better to err on the side of caution,” Dirk says, drumming his fingers against the table. “Even the bio-locked ones won’t let me in.”</p><p>“What? Why?” John asks, frowning a little.</p><p>Dirk has to resist the urge to roll his eyes; this is a business meeting if nothing else, and it’d be unseemly.</p><p>“Because we wouldn’t need his permission to get where we needed to go through them,” Lalonde thankfully fills in the blanks, and they both studiously ignore Egbert’s horrified look as he puts two and two together.</p><p>“We wouldn’t do that, though,” he says.</p><p>“No. But it’s safer to plan as if you would,” Dirk points out. “And it doesn’t necessarily need to be you. There’s plenty others that wouldn’t bat an eye at extracting what they needed from me in order to get inside.”</p><p>“Between Roxy and yourself, the electronic locks ought not to be a problem, though.”</p><p>“Correct. Even if my replacement is as good as I am, they’ll have only had a few months to learn the systems and try to overhaul them. I’m the only one of its original creators alive, and there’s only one other who might be able to do it in that timespan, but he takes his defiance where he can- and that would be where he could. If it seems to work, that would be good enough for Mother, I’m afraid. She’s never been all that interested in code. Either option would leave us with a way in, but it won’t be long before someone notices something is amiss. Curse my love for systematic redundancy in security,” he says, deadpan. Lalonde’s face doesn’t so much as twitch up into a smile; humor’s still wasted on her, it seems. At least John’s looking a little bit amused by it.</p><p>“That should be acceptable. We’ll have a distraction planned to handle most of her forces, while we go after her.”</p><p>“Make it big, and make it convincing, or Noir’ll ignore it entirely. It has to be something she orders him to do. If it were me,” he starts, cuts a glance at Lalonde. When she nods, he keeps going. “If it were me, I’d keep Vriska on the Carnival. It’s a good idea, and we all know those fucking clowns are a problem. This keeps them and their chucklevoodoos out of the way, and it helps with a distraction. She goes in first, and if you can send another team to the White House itself, get them to storm it when she’s halfway done, it’ll cause a hell of a lot of chaos. And it’ll occupy anyone who <em>isn’t</em><span> at the Carnival.”</span></p><p>“Big and convincing and as much damage as possible,” Serket muses. Dirk suspects that she’s going to be the one in charge of that. It’d suit her, he admits grudgingly. If nothing else, she’s flashy and spiteful enough to pull it off. “Now <em>that,</em><span> I like to hear.”</span></p><p>“He and the Agents are going to wreak havoc on those doing the distracting,” Rose chimes in, like Dirk doesn’t know this already. He simply meets her gaze and raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“You and I both know collateral damage is unavoidable.”</p><p>“We can minimize it, though.”</p><p>“On our side. Throw in some heavy hitters. John might be a good choice; he’s important enough that it’ll make it convincing, and he can handle himself and others. The Brute might not be there, but the Dignitary’s a real good shot, and you know how Noir is with his knives as well as I do.” Dirk doesn’t necessarily <em>like</em><span> the idea of leaving John with her, for reasons that he would rather not examine right now, but if it needs to be done- well. What he likes hardly matters. </span></p><p>“…Sure. I can take care of things on that end,” John says, after a second’s delay. At least he doesn’t sound too enthused about it.</p><p>“Aw, yes. Me and you again Egbert,” Vriska crows. “We’re going to make them <em>pay.</em><span>”</span></p><p>“Good.” Lalonde favors him with a smile, pleased.</p><p>“And don’t forget to include folks who can disarm any kind of bomb fast, no matter how improvised. CD’s a slippery fucker, but he’s not a demolitions expert for nothing.” Dirk can’t quite help the almost fond smile on his face, as he thinks of the short Carapacian. “Honestly, you could probably take him alive real easy, if it wasn’t for the sheer, unhinged chaotic energy he has. Lil dude can blow anything up, but he’s got a weakness for Black Inches and licorice gummy bears like you wouldn’t believe.”</p><p>“I’ve yet to decide what to do with the Agents. I’d considered trying to turn them early on, but I wasn’t certain. My experience with them was quite limited, as she preferred to keep me away from that. I dealt mostly with the highbloods and helping the Carnival grow. All I remember of the Agents is that Noir had quite the contentious relationship with the Baroness,” Lalonde muses. “I take it that hasn’t changed?”</p><p>“Not even a little. He’ll listen to her, just grudgingly. They’re not quadranted in a way you could use against either of them, but you…probably could strike a deal with him if you wanted to. I can’t guarantee <em>he’d</em> want to listen to you, though. Or that he wouldn’t cause any problems in the future. That’s why they’re not on either list I gave you.”</p><p>“He wouldn’t listen to you?” John breaks in to ask, and Dirk almost laughs at the question. Now <em>that</em> is a good joke.</p><p>“God, no. I spent a lot of time antagonizing the hell out of him,” Dirk says, and he can’t help being a bit wistful about it. Noir’s objectively the perfect pitch crush, suited to the quadrant like no other. He wouldn’t have been in any of this trouble if he’d been inclined that way, but then again, he’d have a lot more nonfatal stab wounds. He ignores John’s muttered “of course you did” in favor of continuing. “The Dignitary, maybe, we’ve got- we <em>had</em> a mutual respect, but I’m not his boss anymore, and he’s not the type to take orders from anyone who isn’t a direct supervisor. He’ll listen to Jack, though. And Jack isn’t loyal enough to stay when he has a way to save himself <em>and</em> a way to get out from under her thumb.”</p><p>Dirk hesitates for a moment, before he adds, “And the Archagent owes me a favor.”</p><p>Silence reigns for a split-second.</p><p>“How?” Rose asks, simply.</p><p>“I built him an arm and an eye,” Dirk answers, studiously ignoring her gaze. This particular secret is one that he has kept a long time- from Mother and Dave both because compassion kills, and for Noir himself because there’s no need to throw away a perfectly good weapon, and he’d known that everything comes with a cost. It feels odd to say it here, where it doesn’t matter at all, where he won’t quite be the one leveraging it. “And it isn’t actually Company tech. I thought it would be useful to have something on him; I was right.”</p><p>That’s all he has to say on the matter.</p><p>“For an unpleasant guy, it seems like you were kind of close to him,” John observes, an odd note in his voice. But Egbert is always odd about Dirk’s past, it’s part of the package by now. Dirk can’t really blame him for it.</p><p>“We had an understanding, but I got along much better with the Dignitary,” Dirk shrugs. “Jack Noir is a difficult person to get close to. Mostly, I was less annoying to deal with than Dave, but then again, I was the one handing down orders from Mother. It balanced out.”</p><p>“Could you contact him?” Lalonde presses, leaning forward slightly. Dirk simply slants her a look.</p><p>“Not in any way that you’d trust me to.”</p><p>Her mouth curves up into a dark smile, and she inclines her head, granting him that point.</p><p>“I’ll work on it myself, then.”</p><p>“Tell him 08-65529. He’ll know it’s from me.”</p><p>“A batch number? That’s unusual.” Lalonde’s eyes narrow as she contemplates it, and Dirk simply ignores that. He’s given out enough secrets as is.</p><p>“No one else pays attention to that sort of detail,” he offers in explanation. “He won’t leave until we’re there and he’s certain he can get away safely, if he decides to do it at all. But I’m willing to bet that he will.”</p><p>“He wouldn’t fight against her?” John asks, frowning. “That seems- kind of weird, if he hates her as much as you say.”</p><p>“Does it? He’s not going to lift a finger against her without any plans in place, not when she could crush him like a bug. Whether or not he wants to stab her eyes out is irrelevant- and he does, by the way. But he’s learned <span>some kind of caution over the yea</span><span>r</span><span>s. Maybe. </span><span>St</span><span>ill, i</span><span>t’s</span> one thing to make use of chaos to escape, probably faking your own death while you’re at it, and quite another to stand up in outright rebellion. He’s going to play both sides as much as he can. Dude’s smart that way, so. We’ll still need to account for his presence.”</p><p>“And for his telling her?”</p><p>“No. Even if he’s dead sure the attack won’t work, he’s not going to lift a single finger beyond what he’s directly ordered to do. And I really doubt Mother is going to ask him if the Resistance has been in contact with an offer.” Dirk sighs, quiet. “You should have seen his reports. ‘We killed them. 58 stab wounds. I want a fuckin’ raise or you’re next.’ They say brevity is the soul of wit, but those things didn’t even have dates on them.”</p><p>“I’ve never had the ah, unique pleasure of having to read those,” Lalonde muses. “I rather think I would have been frustrated, rather than amused. Perhaps it was better that I had to deal with the more mirthful elements.”</p><p>“Not better for your skin,” Dirk says. “The greasepaint is heavy.”</p><p>Another hint of a smile.</p><p>“I’m sure I would have found that a worthy sacrifice had I stayed,” she says. “But then again, there are many things that would be different if I had.” Her eyes stray over to Roxy, just for a second, as do Dirk’s.</p><p>“Yes. They would have,” he agrees. While he can picture Lalonde in full regalia, a skull daubed onto her face and chucklevoodoos thrumming in her wake, buzzing in the pulp of his teeth, he can’t picture Roxy dressed in a business power suit with a red-lipped smile close-mouthed, her dimples ironed out. More to the point, he doesn’t want to; something soft and weak in him recoils at it. “It’s better you didn’t.”</p><p>“Yes,” Lalonde says, and there’s a flash of white in her smile now, something approving in her voice. “It is. Shall we get back to work?”</p><p>“We should. You’d better get me a pen and paper so I can sketch out the schematics. The general layout hasn’t changed, but there’s been additions since you were there. And- maybe even additions since <em>I </em><span>was last there.”</span></p><p>
  <span>H</span>
  <span>e’s provided both things, and Dirk lets the conversation flow around him as he works at it. Neat, accurate lines from memory, all of them painting him as a traitor. </span>
  <span>He doesn’t let his hands shake as he maps everything out, points out the way he’d left for those who he hasn’t explained it to, and makes notations about shifts and guards and what might have changed.</span>
</p><p>Dirk talks for much, much longer than he means to, and he only stops when he’s done, clearing his throat. He’s surprised to find that his voice his hoarse.</p><p>“Well, now that all the boring stuff is out of the way,” Vriska says, leaning in. She’s been too quiet, obviously, content to let Lalonde handle what she doesn’t feel like it. Well, that’s one way to delegate, although he’s surprised that Lalonde lets her get away with so much. Dirk supposes she doesn’t want to take after Mother at all, but privately, he thinks a stronger hand might have been fine with this one. “We’re gonna need some more info on those new defenses. <em>Not</em><span> just the security codes, so don’t think about playing cute with me, Crocker. I’m fucking adorable, and I’m not having it. But we know that she’s been working on something big, because </span><em>aaaaaaaall</em><span> the factories at sea that we keep trying to hit have gotten their security beefed up, and Terezi here knows that the patent office’s been working </span><em>overtime</em><span>.”</span></p><p>She’s grinning like she thinks she has something on him- no, he realizes. She’s not looking at him, she’s looking at Lalonde.</p><p>Dirk wonders if this is a ploy to make him seem useless, or if this is genuinely a trump card that she thought she should play.</p><p>Rose enjoys a small, private smile, the kind that conveys victory without being too gauche. “Of course, we have some details, and someone as...seasoned as you should be able to improvise at will.”</p><p>
  <span>Pyrope </span>
  <em>cackles</em>
  <span>. “Oh, she’s got you there.”</span>
</p><p>“I’m sure that more detailed plans of them exist outside of Dirk’s memory,” Lalonde continues easily, “but whether or not we can access them is another thing entirely. Would they be at any of the research facilities that we can get someone into, or available somewhere that Roxy can find?” This is posed to him, and Dirk pauses to consider it.</p><p>“<span>I don’t think you can get someone in there </span><span>to try to copy them </span><span>before time runs out. And Roxy’s good, so that might be worth a shot, but- there’s a hard copy that exists, that doesn’t have the risk of being corrupted, and that might be easier to get,</span>” Dirk says, after a long moment. “It’s, ah. At my place.”</p><p>“Your place?” John says, blankly.</p><p>“Not Seattle, or the White House itself. Not even in DC, actually,” he admits. “But I had a small apartment in Arlington. Secure, but nondescript. Mother didn’t know about it, I made sure of that, so if you wanted to send someone to try to pick it up, I can draw up instructions on how to navigate some of the...security measures.”</p><p>“And you’re just telling us this now?” Karkat snaps. Dirk blinks, bemused.</p><p>“It didn’t have anything to do with what you were asking me before, and like I said, I’m hardly the only person who can get at the information,” he points out. “Either way, it’s relevant now. I had a bad habit of bringing work home with me, but I didn’t leave much behind there.”</p><p>“Except those plans?” Serket’s eye narrows, like she senses a trap.</p><p>“Except the plans, some half-finished code, and at least four separate prototypes,” Dirk corrects her. If he’s going to be pedantic, he may as well. “There’s likely more, but nothing truly sensitive. Well. Nothing truly sensitive that others could get their hands on and remain intact. The plans might have changed while I was gone, though. So it might be better to let Roxy try to find updated copies.”</p><p>“We can do both,” Lalonde says, in a voice that brooks absolutely no argument. The power that vibrates under it is deliberately employed, and lost on the other humans in the room; Karkat winces, and Serket bares her teeth. Pyrope just keeps smiling. “You and John will go in two days; transport will be arranged, as will <em>appropriate </em><span>disguises.” Oh, Dirk knows that one isn’t directed at him. “If</span> you encounter trouble, although I hope you will not, you have to retreat. We can’t afford either of you getting hurt, nor can we afford to give her confirmation that Dirk is on our side willingly.”</p><p>Surprisingly, no one objects. Well, John is staring at this, slack-jawed, and Karkat looks about ready to combust, but neither of those are unusual events.</p><p>Dirk, on the other hand, isn’t entirely shocked. Lalonde wants to test him, to ensure that she has his loyalty before everything. If he wants to leave, to cut and run, ditch Egbert and go back home, now would be the chance. If he wanted to get cold feet, for real, this would be the time.</p><p>She has to know the out she’s offering him; it’s staggering that she’s even considering it. But then again, better know whether or not he’s a weak link <em>before</em><span> it becomes crucial. He’s certain that she has enough backup plans that if he did decide to bail, his information would be almost entirely useless. Names, faces, nothing else. </span></p><p>“Alright,” Dirk simply says. “We’ll go. And I want my sword, when we do.”</p><p>A ghost of a smile pulls at her mouth.</p><p>“Of course,” she answers, and that’s that.</p><p>Dirk meets John’s eyes across the table. He seems wary, unsure, but Dirk thinks that he can trust the strange tension between them won’t matter. Egbert is, somehow, a professional.</p><p>John nods, just once, in return.</p><p>“<span>I’ll make sure we get back okay,” he says with that stubborn tilt to his head. “</span><em>With </em><span>the plans.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Dirk tries not to admire how determined, how </span>
  <em>serious</em>
  <span> he sounds. He fails.</span>
</p><p>-</p>
<h1 class="western">xix.</h1><p>“You seem hesitant about this, Mr. Egbert.” Dirk watches John watch him, and makes a point not to hesitate for a single second before taking his katana back. Something in him eases at the familiarity of its grip. It’s base sentimentality born of having been in possession of the sword for a long, long time; it’s the kind of feeling he should’ve crushed a long time ago.</p><p>But Dirk’s missed it.</p><p>He smooths his thumb against the worn hilt, the Company red faded. He could get it redone, maybe find some orange wrappings for it. There used to be a time when his hands were too small to hold it properly, when he had to use both of them instead of one and his grip would waver after a few minutes. He’d been so weak, then.</p><p>(He remembers larger hands pressing his around it, calloused where his were soft, the grip just shy of too-tight but there weren’t any blows to go along with them. Those came after, didn’t they? He remembers quiet, even instruction, meted out differently from Noir’s brutal, violet lessons on ‘How To Stab Shit Dead’. He remembers that Dave stopped sounding like that around him quickly, once he’d started to learn.</p><p>He remembers-)</p><p>“Hesitant? Me? I’m just, y’know, a normal amount of concerned. I guess.” John’s voice draws him out of it.</p><p>“And how is that? You should quantify it for me, I prefer precision in these kinds of matters,” Dirk says. He’s talking just to talk, but it helps dislodge the last clinging vestiges of those memories. “Go on, I want to know what units we’re using, here. Is this by your personal benchmark? Are they standardized? Are the standards codified in a book or are they physical objects somehow?” A pause, and a smirk just because he still knows how to push Egbert’s buttons, even platonically. “Or have you just failed to think your system of concern measurement through, here? It’s a good concept, I’ll give you that, but these things need a lot of work.”</p><p>John just scowls at him, and flips him off. He can be so petulant sometimes, it’s almost adorable.</p><p>“Never mind any of that, then. You’re just insufferable and I hope you get, uh, shot by your own alarm system?” He sounds mildly uncertain on that last point, but there’s a note of real upset underneath it. Dirk slides his katana into its sheath, satisfied that it’s still in excellent condition.</p><p>“I won’t be. It wasn’t Company property, and given how infrequently I used it and how inconspicuous I needed it to stay so I could continue to use it- there’s hardly that advanced of an alarm system.”</p><p>“But people did know where it was, right?”</p><p>“I told Lalonde already,” Dirk sighs. “I knew where it was. I’m almost certain the Dignitary knew, but he’d never go there unless otherwise ordered. It’s too much of a detour from his usual commute. And Dave knows, but Dave won’t be looking for me at all. Certainly, I doubt anyone’s looking for me after this long.”</p><p>John’s quiet for a moment.</p><p>“I mean. The news hasn’t exactly broken,” he says. “Which- seems weird to me? Like, it’s been so long surely they’d want to find you?”</p><p>Dirk blinks over at him, raising an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”</p><p>“Be…cause what you did was like, important and kind of irreplaceable?”</p><p>“Careful, Mr. Egbert, or I’ll think you’re complimenting me,” Dirk warns. At John’s unimpressed look, though, he relents. “Fine. I am- was- an investment, and I was costly in terms of resources, but I was put to work as soon as safely possible in order to get the highest possible return. That being said, I have never once assumed that I was <em>irreplaceable</em>. Before I was President, I was an engineer. And before that, I’m my Mother’s son. Redundancy, backups, and failsafes are always important.”</p><p>John’s looking at him again, his brows furrowed into the kind of frown that tells Dirk he’s thinking of something. But Dirk doesn’t know what, and that’s the problem. He reviews his words mentally, picks them apart to try and find out where it is. Is it because he called Mother, well, Mother? No. It can’t be; he’s done it around Egbert before, and family does not simply change because his circumstances have. Maybe Egbert is simply shocked by the common knowledge that Dirk can, in fact, build things? Unlikely.</p><p>“I just- how can you talk about yourself like that?” he bursts out, and Dirk’s train of thought screeches to a halt. What?</p><p>“What?” Eloquently put, that was. But at least Egbert is quiet too, his cheeks a dusky pink. It suits him unfortunately well, for all that it’s based on discomfort rather than frustration or anything less wholesome this time.</p><p>“Bluh.” Dirk waits, lets him compose himself or try to corral his brain cells into creating a coherent sentence. He even bites back the instinctive pitch-tinged barb of pointing that out along with the time constraints they’re under. “It’s just a weird way to think about it, I guess. Like, you make it sound like you’re a stock or something, and it’s- strange. I don’t really like it.”</p><p>“You don’t like it when I talked about workers like that,” Dirk corrects him absently. “It would be one hell of a logical inconsistency for me to think that I was <em>that</em> far above them. It’d be a different story if I’d come out quite right.”</p><p>“If you’d…come out right?” Egbert looks like he’s thinking hard about it again, and Dirk curses himself for letting that slip. His own imperfections are only to be known behind closed doors, only to be picked apart and examined at home. Outside, to anyone and everyone else, he’s as flawless as he presents himself to be, a diamond on the crown of the Company’s supremacy.</p><p>Well, until he’d kissed John Egbert, then fucked him repeatedly, then spat on everything he’d been made to do and run away to join the enemy. That’s a pretty fucking big flaw right there. Dirk resists the urge to be sick.</p><p>“Yes,” he says, with studied calmness. He feels like he’s hearing Dave’s words in his own mouth now, and it’s like chewing on broken glass. “If I’d come out right, which I didn’t. I’m aware that I am not precisely what she intended, my eyes are proof enough of that, but I’ve- I used to try. And do my best to be what she wanted anyway.”</p><p>“That’s kind of fucked up,” Egbert says, because he’s ridiculously virtuous enough to really think that, despite knowing Dirk. Despite everything that’s happened between them.</p><p>“In case you haven’t noticed, Mr. Egbert,” Dirk drawls out instead, just like always. “I’m kind of fucked up.”</p><p>“Wow! Okay, edgelord, you sure are,” John tells him, but his cheeks are dimpling in a faint smile, and his voice is warm. <em>Too </em><span>warm. Dirk realizes that he’s been looking at him for far too long, and he redirects his gaze down to his sword. His thumb smooths against the wrapping at the hilt, more familiar than anything else, even John. </span></p><p>“<span>You’re going to insult me while I’ve got a sword in my hand?” Dirk asks instead, raising an eyebrow.</span></p><p>“Dirk. My man. The sword has literally ever stopped me from insulting you before, and that was when there was actually a fifty-fifty chance that you’d kill me,” John says. He sounds too proud of himself. “Now? You didn’t even try to maul me a little bit with a pool noodle.”</p><p>“We weren’t using pool noodles.”</p><p>“You could’ve found one!”</p><p>“Where?”</p><p>“You know,” John says, changing the subject completely and unsubtly, “We should probably get going.”</p><p>Dirk has to press his lips together to hide a smile; it’s getting harder to do that, these days. He’ll let Egbert have this one.</p><p>“<span>That we should,” he agrees. Dirk sheaths the katana with a fluid movement, and it clicks satisfyingly once the blade is fully covered. The sound is just as perfect now as when he’d first gotten it; he’d spent a lot of time practicing drawing it and resheathing it with that quiet </span><em>snick</em><span>, until he could do it one-handed, at a moment’s notice, with his eyes closed, even.</span></p><p>“<span>You’re not going to stab me with that, are you?” John asks, totally breaking the moment. “Because that was definitely a thing that happened.”</span></p><p>“You say that as if you haven’t broken bones with that hammer of yours,” Dirk points out. But he adds on, “No, I wasn’t planning on stabbing you. The jury remains out if you say anything dumb, though.”</p><p>“Dirk,” he says, very serious. “You think everything I say is dumb. You are very wrong about it, but that’s not reassuring.”</p><p>“Then you’ll have a real good joke to tell for once.” He smirks over at John for good measure. “Now come on, let’s hurry. We ought to get this over with.”</p><p>Dirk steps out of the room, and John scurries next to him, down the long, long corridor and then into a covered garage that smells of old rubber and damp concrete. It’s the closest thing he’s had to outside air in a long time.</p><p>A Carapacian in the driver’s seat chitters at them to get into the truck, and John holds the back door open for him. It seems they’re hitching a ride with some fresh produce. Well, the potatoes are half-decent company.</p><p>When John offers a hand to help him up, Dirk hesitates only briefly before taking it, and even through his gloves, the touch jolts through him, right to his core.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here he is. This motherfucker.</p><p>Chapter warnings for, well. Daev. Violence, references to child abuse/abusive familial relationships.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s all going just fine until Dirk freezes right in front of him, and John knocks into him accidentally. Getting there had been annoying, especially changing trucks and vans every so often, but fine, and John’s pretty sure he’s going to smell like cilantro for ages, but better than <em>tasting </em><span>all soapy like it; hell, even getting to the apartment building itself (which, by the way, is so extremely normal that he suddenly understands how no one noticed. It doesn’t even remotely look like where Dirk Crocker should spend any time, let alone where he’d choose to) was okay. </span></p><p><span>No, it’s when they open the apartment door and Dirk steps inside, John right behind him, that the trouble starts. And by trouble, he means he slams into Dirk, notices that there’s a fucking light on for some reason, and it goes </span>right to hell.</p><p>The natural response of teasing or ribbing is right on his lips, but it’s taken out back and shot right in the head, when he sees why it is that Dirk’s frozen.</p><p>Because, despite Dirk’s assurances that his older brother would <em>not</em> be here, his older brother is very much here. The only reason John really doesn’t think it’s a setup is how fucking tense Dirk is. He doesn’t do surprise- not in any visible way that John’s ever managed to get out of him, beyond his eyebrows rising just a little, but he tenses up like no one’s business when he’s shocked, and because they’re pressed together in the hallway, John can feel it.</p><p>The man looks like fresh hell- Dave Crocker that is, not Dirk- and sure, he’s probably got it down to a T, looking hot and also like flaming garbage, but. John’s feeling real nauseous, all of a sudden, his heart pounding in his chest. He wants to do nothing so much more than yank Dirk behind him, and also get some of those glasses that will censor things, because wow, is there a lot of skin on display.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing here?” Dirk bites out, and- yeah. He’s definitely not happy about this. Which is good, because neither is John, except Dirk’s more composed about it. He always is. “And close your robe, no one wants to see your tits, like I keep telling you.”</p><p>“Fuck all the way off, you only ever said it in the office, and this ain’t a government building, kiddo, so I can have my tits out all I want to. Free the fucking nipple from its prison, lil man, we’ve progressed past that as a society. And also? I <em>am </em><span>the fuckin’ government, so my tits have been out all over the place while you’ve been away. Well, guess you’re not away anymore, so s</span>houldn’t I be asking the same thing about you, baby bro?” Dave Crocker drawls out, from where he’s occupying more of a couch than one single man should be able to. Seriously, it’s manspreading taken to the next fucking level, especially considering that he must have broken in to get here or something. “You’re the one who’s been MI-fucking-A for the past five months. Leaving your dear, sweet family behind. Me, your favorite goddamn brother on the planet, and let’s not even mention how hard you had poor ma sobbing over your disappearance. Seriously, kid, you fucked up with that one, it was waterworks everywhere, shit was gonna go Biblical before we’d even planned it, sea levels rising all over the place getting higher than a fuckin’ assclown, and that ain’t even to do with global warming.”</p><p>“I’ve been busy,” is what Dirk comes up with in answer, his tone equally light and composed. John’s…really not sure what to make of that whole rant, but he doesn’t think Dave’s noticed him yet, so maybe if he just creeps around-</p><p>“Busy with your boy toy over there?” Dave asks, and his voice just drips in amusement even if his face isn’t doing anything at all. But the weight of his attention is almost paralyzing, suffocating. “Yeah, can’t imagine <em>that</em> was gonna hold your attention for so long, but I guess if you’re repressed as all hell, a fuckfest lasting a good few months is probably what you needed, even if your choice in company is,” here, he pauses, sucks his teeth. “Problematic.</p><p>“But, hey,” Dave shrugs as he sits up, the gesture somehow threatening even if he’s in a bright red bathrobe, fuzzy slippers, and sweatpants with weird stains on the knees. “Ma’s willing to forgive, even if she ain’t gonna forget. Everyone’s got their teeny rebellion, and while you were a snooty little shit, we always knew you were a late goddamn bloomer. And now you’ve gone and got it outta your system, so all you gotta do is sit in the chair and watch a bunch of movies like always, swear and pinky fuckin’ promise you’ll be good, and it’s back to the office with you.”</p><p>Now it’s John’s turn to freeze.</p><p>No, that can’t be true. There’s- no way that Dirk would just be allowed to come back after everything. He’d assured them of that. Hell, even if he hadn’t, John and everyone else knows just how this works. Those who don’t keep Company secrets end up sleeping with the fishes, no matter how high up they are. And this, no. It’s not true.</p><p>“He’s lying,” John hisses out, because Dirk’s gone quiet, too quiet next to him. He can’t be thinking about it. In the dim light, what little John can see of his face is a pale sliver, inscrutable. “Dirk, seriously, you can’t believe a word-,”</p><p>“Did I fuckin’ say you could talk?” Dave interrupts, loudly. He stands properly. Dirk gets a hundred times tenser next to him. He’s gripping the hilt of his katana so tight his knuckles are gone white, the delicate bones of his hand standing in statue-stark relief. “Christ, man, read the room. Would’ve thought he’d have trained you better, since junior here’s a control freak like no fuckin’ other, kid could win a medal for that shit, all shiny and he’d complain about it not being designed just right. But- I guess he didn’t think you were worth it. Fair enough, man, you got a nice enough ass but you talk to fuckin’ much and ain’t a single word interesting. You gotta be way sharper if you wanna keep up with him, or at least learn how to listen. We’ll be fixin’ that right up, though, don’t worry. You’re not gonna say a single word out of turn by the time we’re done. Hell, you might even learn what a good joke is.”</p><p>Dave takes a step closer, one hand shoved into the pocket of his robe, the other gesturing absently. A trail of smoke follows it- from a regular cigarette, John’s pretty sure, but the smell in here is some hellish mix of nicotine and whatever kind of awful weed the clowns smoke. It reeks, and John really wishes it <em>was</em> bad neighbors like he’d kind of thought it might be in the hallway.</p><p>“’Course, you’re gonna need to hand him over,” Dave continues. “Figure that’s not gonna be a problem, though, champ. Ma was downright fuckin’ furious when she thought you’d been taken. Almost didn’t wanna wipe you off the biosigs. Shit, dude, she nearly slaughtered poor DD, and she <em>likes</em> him. He always sweet-talks her about gems. She did slaughter the poor fuckers on guard duty who let it happen, but that’s damn fair, they were shit at their jobs if you were sneaking out anyhow. Wish I could bring ‘em back and kill ‘em again, but for the right reason this time. Why else would a man learn some necbromancy, right?”</p><p>Dirk’s still quiet, like he’s thinking about it. Like he’s just going to hand John over. He’s not. He had so many chances before, and things are different now, they’re- they could be called friends, if John didn’t want him so badly, if Dirk Crocker was the kind of person to make friends.</p><p>“Ma misses you. She wants you back at any cost. She loves you, kid.” Dave’s voice softens at that, but there’s still an edge to it that John can’t identify. Dirk can, though, and whatever it is makes him stiffen further.</p><p>He’s not considering it.</p><p>He can’t.</p><p>He-</p><p>“It’s a pretty sweet deal. This chump for everything you had before, and like I said. Few hours in the chair, you’ll be brand new and ready to go, so- chop chop. This place is quaint as fuck and all, but the ventilation sucks ass. Grab a suit from your closet, get dressed, and let’s go.”</p><p>Dave says it like it’s a done deal, like Dirk’s just going to listen, and John swears he can see Dirk take a small aborted step forward like he <em>will</em>. It makes his heart stop. He reaches out, grabs Dirk’s wrist tight. No, he’s not allowed to leave, and he’s not going to turn John in. John can’t let him <strike>go </strike>do that.</p><p>“What’s the catch?” Dirk asks. He subtly shifts in front of John, going towards Dave, and no- nope, that’s not happening, he is not even entertaining that train of thought. It’s a good thing that Dirk doesn’t move closer. And that he doesn’t shake off John’s hand. It’s a stupid, stupid thing to be comforted by. He should let go. He should take this chance to slip off and get the things Dirk says were in his room- with Dave here, he’s not sure they are anymore, but he still has to check-, and then get out of here and leave Dirk Crocker to his fate. He can’t even say that he knows too much, because so little of their plans were concrete. Rose would probably tell him to cut his losses.</p><p>She’d tell him he did his best, and that maybe next time he runs into Dave he can drag him back too, but that Dirk’s already told them all he knows, it’s not a big loss. He can see her face as she says it, inscrutable. He hates that about her sometimes.</p><p>(He hates how she treats Dirk like a pawn, how she pulls all their strings and doesn’t ever say anything to explain herself because she’s in charge and she doesn’t have to, not until afterwards, but John can’t let himself be collateral damage in this- he can’t let <em>Dirk</em> be, and fuck, but he’s going to have to deal with that later.)</p><p>“Catch?” Dave Crocker asks, putting on his best impression of…innocence, probably? He doesn’t do it as well as Dirk does. He’s too old, too cruel. Too fucked up, John thinks, but that’s mean even if it’s true- everyone knows he’s the black sheep of the family, nothing like picture-perfect long-lost Rosalind Crocker, or uptight ruthless Dirk Crocker. He wonders if that stings, being second-best all the time, and then hates himself a little bit for thinking that, too. He’s not here to shit on Dave Crocker, he can do that on Twitter, thanks. He’s here on business, and just because he doesn’t like the way Dave keeps assuming Dirk is going to just go with him and hand John over, doesn’t mean he can get distracted.</p><p>“Ain’t no catch here, kiddo,” Dave says. He’s trying to be pleasant, John can tell. It’s not working. Dirk’s hand shifts subtly in his, and John nearly has a heart attack thinking he’s going to pull away, that this is going to be <em>it</em>, even if Dave is pretty obviously lying. Dirk’s too smart to fall for it.</p><p>But instead, Dirk just laces their fingers together and squeezes once.</p><p>And that’s enough.</p><p>John lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.</p><p>“There’s always a catch with you, brother dear,” Dirk drawls out, sounding so much like Rose that John almost blinks. It’s- not just their resemblance, he realizes. This is Dirk making a point, this is Dirk deciding <em>now</em> is the time to just go in and needle his brother, because of course he is. He could never resist getting on someone’s nerves. John’s going to have to pretend he didn’t think that one fondly.</p><p>“Smartass,” Dave says in return, and if John didn’t know better, he might even think <em>that</em> was fond. But there’s still that hint of darkness lurking behind it, in the corners of Dave’s smile, in the smoke he blows out like miasma. He reaches into the way-too-big pocket of his robe and pulls out a red circlet, spins it on one finger lazily. “But I <em>guess</em> I’ll say it. You wanna do this the easy way, or the hard way? Ma’s got this one done up all special for you and another one back home for your boy toy, but I figure I can put this on him first, yeah? Watching his brain leak outta his ears is gonna do you a whole fuckin’ world of good when it comes to learning your goddamn place.”</p><p>“And where’s that, Dave?” Dirk asks. He’s still nonchalant, but he’s gone tenser at the suggestion, his grip on John’s hand so tight it hurts. “Underneath you?”</p><p>“At dear ol’ mother’s side, actually, but you bet I’m gonna make suggestions so you’re less of a pain to order around,” Dave corrects, and he smiles, wide and bright and so fucking empty it almost makes John shudder. His teeth sparkle brighter than the sun, and it takes him a solid five seconds to realize that’s not because of good dental work, but because he has a diamond grill in there, like he’s some vampire rapper with a midlife crisis. Jesus, it looks awful. He’s got the same eyeteeth as Dirk does- i.e., wicked sharp and definitely not hot, but they’re worse.</p><p>“She ain’t gonna be too pissed if he comes back a vegetable, he’s still got enough meat on his bones and he’s pretty enough to be a whole-ass snack. Dude’s got cake, which is, ha, pretty damn ironic given his whole vendetta against them, I mean- seriously, bro, what the hell did cake ever do to you? Shit in your dinner and beat you up after school? Call you a pussy and make you cry? That’s a whole lotta baggage to be carrying for dessert.”</p><p>“Because your dessert baggage is mom-shaped, that’s okay?” John butts in because seriously, he can’t just let Dirk do all the talking here. He has to defend himself too. This is obviously some kind of mistake, since it snaps Dave’s attention right to him, and something in his face goes cold and remote. “And what’s in your mouth anyway? You look like you gargled sequins and forgot to rinse after.”</p><p>Dirk yanks his hand away, immediately. John tells himself that doesn’t hurt, and you know what? Fuck Dave Crocker. He’ll hold Dirk’s hand if he wants to. He grabs it again, laces their fingers together, and pretends not to notice the tremor in Dirk’s.</p><p>“Rimmed a fairy and had a good fucking time, but what’s in my mouth is more than you’re gonna make in your entire life, how about that. And eff-tee-ar- I didn’t bust out the ‘yo mama’ jokes around here, the fuck are you doing dragging them out like the carcass of an elephant clogging up the room? Ma’s cake is just fine-,” a quiet sigh from Dirk, exasperated, punctuates the pause between Dave’s words, and Dave just- keeps going. Guess they’re just ignoring that then, and John- thinks it’s probably better for his sanity that they do.</p><p>“Speaking of, though- seriously, what the hell are you doing? This some sappy romance shit to you? I might have to vomit, but don’t worry, bro, I’m aiming right for your ugly-ass face, it’s only gonna be an improvement at this point,” Dave says, and his tone is still the same but it sure doesn’t match his face.</p><p>“John,” Dirk murmurs. John ignores this, because Dirk is definitely going to say something stupid like ‘hey, what the fuck did you do that for, you dumb shit’, which would be valid. Which is why John’s ignoring it.</p><p>“At least I don’t need to, like, be rich and Betty’s son just so someone will touch me,” John says right back. “Okay, we get it, you’re a Crocker, but everyone knows you’re completely batshit crazy and you can’t kiss, so who’s the real winner here?”</p><p>“Woah, woah, woah. Hold the motherfucking phone because that bastard’s trying to do some kind of a runner and we can’t have that shit around here, can we? Where in the hell did you get the idea that I’m a bad kisser?”</p><p>John doesn’t know where he got the idea. But he nudges Dirk over to the side and takes a step closer to Dave instead himself. “Someone was doing a honeypot thing on you, like ages ago. She said you slobbered all over her and nearly bit her lip off. 0/10, would not do again. Where d’you think I got that joke about kissing a vampire llama from?” And he beams to follow that one up, his stage smile, nice and distracting to twist the knife in. See? He’s learned how to annoy people, thanks to Dirk, and it’s providing the perfect opportunity. But Dirk is still here, still holding onto his hand.</p><p>This is getting ridiculous. He’s absolutely not going to let go, though.</p><p>“First of fuckin’ all, I will bite the bullet and deal with your fucked-up teeth and kiss you right now to prove you wrong, so jot that shit down, make a note, and you’d better go pop a mint because I don’t know where the hell you’ve been. No, wait, this is Dirk’s place, he probably has four fuckin’ extra toothbrushes for his imaginary friends-,”</p><p>“What?” John asks. “No. That- no. Gross. I don’t know where<em> you’ve</em> been, I’m not getting my mouth on yours, you’re going to like, bite my face off! And this room smells fucking awful! You go brush your teeth first.”</p><p>“Fuck that, we’re settling this now. I’ll tweet about it later, you cheap bastard, and you’re gonna get tagged in all the fanfic. Get fucking ready for Dave Crocker/John Egbert in My Immortal shitty smut-style, because that’s all you’re gonna see for miles and you know you ain’t gonna forget it, but you’re gonna get off to it ‘cause I’m the best kisser in town and there ain’t room for the two of us.”</p><p>“No! That is dumb and insane and I’m not doing it,” John says. “You’re the most disgusting person I’ve ever seen? In my whole life?”</p><p>“I’m disgusting? Are you shitting me? At least I don’t have a goddamn slime kink.”</p><p>Dirk squeezes his hand, and John nearly loses his train of thought and a really fucking good comeback when he lets go, but- oh, okay. He knows what’s happening. He can be a distraction, he can definitely keep talking while Dirk goes to sneak out his stuff. God, he really, really hopes Dave hasn’t been through it, but the place doesn’t look ransacked, just- settled into, with the carelessness of things strewn over and the sharp, slightly-gross smell of spilled alcohol. Under the weed, and tobacco, and- okay, he’s not going to get over how bad it smells in here, and he hates that he can <em>pick out</em><span> what the individual bad smells are. This is the worst.</span></p><p>John sees a line of white powder on the table, a single, fallen bottle that’s proudly declaring itself to be mellow corn, and another that says it’s chartreuse, like that’s not a color, and decides that he needs to stop thinking about the smells.</p><p>“At least I’m not drinking corn,” he blurts out. Great.</p><p>“Like you have the taste for this shit, all you know is boxed wine, shitty comedy, and stealing a fuckton of cocktail shrimp like you’re the long lost McElroy brother and the only surviving member of that fuckin’ pain in the ass clan,” Dave sneers. Somehow, that actually worked? John knows full well that Dirk never would’ve gotten so thoroughly distracted by it, but then again. This isn’t Dirk.</p><p>(Honestly, he’s now <em>more</em><span> offended that Dirk implied he’d fuck this guy. Like yeah, the hatchet for that is buried and all, but he can dig it up to complain! John has </span><em>taste</em><span>, but more importantly, he has common sense. All those guys who say not to stick your dick in crazy weren’t totally right, but this is a kind of crazy John wants no part of, thanks.)</span></p><p>“We’ve just been over how you have no taste at all. If you said you liked something, I would just immediately assume that it was awful and that it shouldn’t exist,” he says. “So, like. Suck on that?”</p><p>“Ha, you wish you could get me to suck on anything of yours, but I’m not in the mood for fuckin’ virginal beavers,” Dave sneers, and he runs his tongue over his two front teeth really deliberately, and somehow manages to make it look menacing. “Like I fuckin’ said, your dick game just ain’t good enough to win us both over, and I’d have to be a hell of a lot more fucked up than I am now to even think about it. ‘Course, I’d still slap a collar on you and smack you around some, but that ain’t kinky, that’s just mom.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“What? It’s what she’d fuckin’ do, numbnuts. Did you miss the whole damn thing earlier about how you’d just be a toy or some shit? Jesus. In one ear and right out the other, with shit-all between them. Well, he always did like ‘em stupid,” Dave sighs. This is not a tangent that makes any sense to John, but he still bristles at it. Both the actual insult to him, and the implied one to Dirk. “The other one had a better ass, but he was too much of a weakshit to actually tap that, so guess you’re out here being second best. You have that in common, at least, but hey. Don’t think that’s the foundation for a healthy relationship. That shit’s built on Company Brand Valentine’s chocolates, fucking gua-ran-teed to bring that love in with a lil extra added to the strawberry filling. Or is it the cherry? Shit’s red, anyway, is the point.”</p><p>Okay, at this point, John’s not even sure he has to say anything here to distract Dave. He’s doing a real good job of that on his own; he circles around the couch to snag a half-empty box of obnoxiously heart-shaped chocolates, and pops one into his mouth.</p><p>John makes a face, he can’t help it. Those things are disgusting, and he knows only half of what’s in there, only that it’ll rot his brain right out his ears two bites in and leave him begging for more.</p><p>“You should try one,” Dave suggests, like he’s some kind of mind-reader. Jeez.</p><p>“It’s March,” John says. “Those things are way past the expiration date.”</p><p>“You think this shit expires? Aw, what a fucking dumbass,” he snorts. He’s coming closer, now, and that sure is a chocolate in his hand. John takes a step back, and then another. There’s not enough open space in here for him to really use his hammer to its best advantage, but he definitely doesn’t want to get cornered. “Nothing has an expiration date, broseph, and this shit? Not to drop any sweet, sweet, company deets on your nosy ass, but all it does is get better over time. Like the finest fucking wine, or that whiskey that you let sit in the barrel to marinate for centuries. Yeah, I’d take two fingers of the good shit, along with a pile of the ‘06 chocs. These’re from this year, so ain’t as nice, but ma wanted this batch to be extra potent. Gotta get those red and black quadranted folks in the mood for Drone Season, y’know? Tried to set a real good example myself, mark of a good leader and all that shit. Fuck, and they will follow. Troll Anne Rice, what a goddamn hero she was. Bless the fuck up.” Dave takes another few steps closer to him, and John keeps his mouth shut, eyes very firmly on the chocolate in his hand. He’s not sure he can take Dave Crocker in a fight- he’s not sure anyone can, the guy fights dirty and he’s practically unhinged, he’ll tear someone apart with his bare hands and jerk off over the body, the rumors say, and that’s both gross and probably accurate. He’d ask Dirk, but that’s not something he thinks he’s going to get an answer to.</p><p>“What? You done talking so soon? Well shit, that might be the best decision you’ve made yet, but it’s rude as all hell to not make polite conversation, asshole.” Closer, now, chocolate first, and John catches his wrist, but he keeps coming, unstoppable and for what? “Weren’t you ever raised right? You talk about your poor dead daddy all the goddamn time in your shows- and I mean Jesus fuck, I thought <em>I</em><span> had issues, but you just can’t let that shit go, huh-, didn’t he ever tell you that if you don’t like your host, you gotta smile real wide and just fake it and knife ‘em in the back later for their shitty horse divorce? That’s hors d’oeuvres,” </span><span>he adds, in a French accent so horrible even John knows it’s wrong.</span></p><p>God, he really, really needs Dirk to hurry the fuck up. There’s only so much he’s willing to do, here.</p><p>John wants to open his mouth and tell him to answer, but he can’t.</p><p>The chocolate is tacky against his skin, half-melted by the heat of Dave’s fingers, and John keeps his lips clamped tightly shut and tells himself he’s not freaking out.</p><p>He doesn’t move, though; he can’t. It wouldn’t take much effort for Dave to shove it right into his mouth, and best case scenario is that it fucks him up for a couple of days and Dirk has to drag him out of here. And, kind of more terrifyingly, there’s something pressing into his stomach, sharp even through the shirt and jacket he’s got on.</p><p>John’s frozen, helpless, and he tells himself that it’s worth it if Dirk gets what they came here for.</p><p>“<span>Yeah,” Dave murmurs, his voice low. His eyes are bright and manic even through the tinted lenses of his shades, even though John can only make out the barest sliver of them. He can see his own reflection in the dark lenses, too. It should remind him of Dirk, but it doesn’t; the aviators are ever so slightly convex, and he’s faced with a distorted mirror image of himself. He watches the chocolate slide down his cheek, sticky. It smells sickly sweet, like nothing he wants near his mouth, and he almost gags. It clings to his skin. “Just like that, there we fucking </span><em>go</em><span>, god, finally some goddamn peace and quiet in here. Shit, though, bro, you don’t look happy at all, and that’s a problem. Kid’s got a face like he just sucked on a lemon and all but hell if he didn’t learn how to smile half-decently by the time we were done with him- and that shit was work, let me fuckin’ tell you. Guess misery does love company, ‘cause that shitty, buck-toothed grin ain’t anywhere to be found now. For the best.”</span></p><p>The chocolate catches against the corner of his mouth. John is dimly aware that he’s shaking his head.</p><p>
  <span>Dave is smiling, wide and dazzling. His mouth looks like it has too many teeth in it, and the smile isn’t like any of the ones Dirk has practiced. No, this way worse, because it’s genuine, </span>
  <span>and there’s still nothing behind it but hunger and rage. </span>
</p><p>“’<span>Course,” Dave keeps talking, because he literally never shuts up, and this is making things a thousand times worse than they need to be. “We’d need to do some real serious dental work on you, stat, shit is an emergency like you just would not fuckin’ believe. Look at those goddamn chompers-,” and no, John is not going to give him the chance to look, even if he gets gutted for it, he keeps his mouth shut tight, lips pressed together, and there’s gloopy, synthetically sweet cherry smearing across half his mouth now. It smells like Pepto Bismol nightmares, and he’s so, so terrified that he’s actually going to </span><em>taste</em><span> it, just the scent of it alone makes him feel sick or maybe that’s just the fucking adrenaline-, “they’re a federal fuckin’ issue, dude, we gotta get you to that orthodontist. Or maybe I’ll knock ‘em all out and we can get you a nice new set, how ‘bout that? Well. If you’re good, maybe, ‘cause I doubt you fuckin’ deserve it, and trust me, dipshit, Dirk ain’t gonna be in any kinda position to be vouching for your honor or whatever. Hell, </span><em>he’ll</em><span> be lucky if ma lets him vouch for anything at all, but y’know, I could spin this real well, if I had to. And you two’d look half-decent on the ads, really soften up the ol’ image if you’re gonna be holding hands like that the whole time. Fuck, man, just blow him like a normal person and get it over with, don’t be that fuckin’ gross in front of me. Actually, how the hell do you blow him with those teeth? Damn, maybe I’d be doing him a favor by the time you get those fixed, but hey, the rest of the remodelling’d be a damn good favor, it’d fix all of </span><em>th</em><em>at</em><span>.”</span></p><p>There’s barely anything left of the chocolate now as it carves its way back up the other cheek, just tarry, messy cherry, and the heat of Dave’s fingers pushing at his skin hard enough that he knows it’ll bruise.</p><p>“<span>Yeah,” </span><span>he says. His voice is soft. John’s heart might pound out of his chest. “Shame I ain’t gonna let ma waste a single penny on your ass that way, though. Spin or no spin, you’re not worth </span><em>shit</em><span> and we both know it, so how ‘bout this? You run away now and I won’t even tell the kid you decided to leave him, huh?”</span></p><p>The fingers on his cheek shift into a hand that’s gripping his jaw tight enough to make it creak.</p><p>“<span>And </span><em>what</em><span> do you fuckin’ say to that, Egbert? It’s an offer you can’t refuse- ‘cause you can’t talk right now, get it?” He actually laughs, the noise sharper than the knife(???) pushing past fabric until it’s right against skin, so cold it</span><em> hurts</em><span>,</span> <span>and John is nearly flipping the fuck out, but the only thing that stops him is that he sees the light in the hallway change, and then all he can feel is a deep, almost overwhelming relief. </span></p><p>“And there he is, junior rejoining the party at last,” Dave announces, right as Dirk slips back into the room. He steps away quick, and John uses this chance to wipe the chocolate off his mouth, smearing it all over his face. It’s sticky, half-melted, and he hates it. He feels disgusting, but when he meets Dirk’s (concerned??? is he really?) gaze, the sick churn of his stomach settles some.</p><p>Dave’s smile turns cruel, now. Not in the way that it’d been for John; no, this is worse, because it’s got something ugly and awful under it.</p><p>(And John gets why Dirk wanted to go, now, and something in his chest caves in.)</p><p>John thinks maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to assume that he’d gotten away with tricking him. “Looking for something? I left you plenty of surprises in there, I promise you that, kiddo. Shame your ass ain’t gonna be inC any shape to appreciate them by the time ma and I are done with you.”</p><p>“Pissing in every available corner doesn’t count as a present,” Dirk says, so coolly that John can’t actually tell whether he <em>did</em><span> find it or not. “Now come on, John, let’s get out of here.”</span></p><p>“Fuck, it’s damn near adorable how you think I’m gonna let y’all leave, let alone leave in one piece.” The tiara is still around, John knows, and he’s real mindful of that as he starts edging to the door. Dirk’s too far away for him to grab hold of, but that doesn’t stop him from silently willing him to start moving.</p><p>It’s ridiculous to think they’re going to get out of this without bloodshed, but the closer they are to the door when Dave finally loses his shit, the better.</p><p>Dirk doesn’t move at all, and so John <em>does</em><span>, stepping over to him to grab his arm again. It ends up with Dirk giving his hand a light squeeze, like this is supposed to be reassuring. It’s not, but the shape he presses into John’s hand is at least probably what they came for.</span></p><p>“I think you are,” Dirk counters. “And I think you’re going to let me walk right out of here, with what I want, and without the TiaraTop on my head. If only because you were too high to actually put it on me.”</p><p>“How about we strife for it, then?” Dave suggests, with the tone of a man who knows he’s going to win no matter what, and who’s also probably cheating like hell. “Like the good ol’ days. Winner take all.”</p><p>“Mother would be disappointed,” Dirk remarks. But John knows he’s going to agree.</p><p>“Ma’s not here.” A flash of teeth, with that one. “Let go of your fuckin’ rent boy and let’s settle this shit, mano a mano. I guess he can watch but it’s a damn shame I didn’t bring one of those skimpy ring girl costumes for wrestling or whatever, he’d look fine as fuck in it. Maybe after I win, I can get him in one. Might even share him with you if you ask nice- though, hah, you ain’t gonna be able to do <em>anything</em> but ask nice by the time Ma’s fixed you right up. Prolly she’ll get that shit smile of yours fixed too, been telling her to for ages.”</p><p>“He’s not on the table,” Dirk says, smoothly. But there’s something darker in his voice now, something angrier. John hasn’t heard it before, he doesn’t know what it means. His Dirk Crocker mental folder is chaos and all, but he still knows where everything in it is and that is just not there.</p><p>(But it should be.)</p><p>“But,” Dirk continues. “If you want to make it a <em>bet</em><span>, Dave, I’ve no problem with that. Not that you have anything I could want, but I’d settle for you </span><span>getting the fuck out. And keeping your mouth shut, but </span><span>I’ve got realistic explanations. Not even stitching it shut worked, and Mother’s muzzled you too often for that to be a real threat.</span><span>”</span></p><p>
  <span>J</span>
  <span>ohn really, </span>
  <em>really</em>
  <span> hopes he’s joking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dave sneers. “Nobody’s gonna say you weren’t a demanding little bitch, kiddo, I’ll make sure of it. Carve that shit into your grave, if Ma lets you have one. Pretty sure you ain’t gonna get a place on the family plot next to dear old Sassacre </span>
  <span>anymore, I can tell you that much, but maybe she’ll go real medieval with it, draw and quarter you, or flay you or some shit. Might stick your head on a pike, let you give free blowies to the crows.”</span>
</p><p>“Bet you’d like that,” Dirk answers easily. He’s let go of John’s hand now, and his fingers curl around the hilt of his sword. “Of course, at that point it’d be a mercy. I wouldn’t have to put up with any of your shit. I doubt she’d do that, though. If she’d sent you here to kill me, you wouldn’t have the Unreal Heir with you. Hilarious, isn’t it? I turned traitor, you’re the only one left, and she still likes me better.”</p><p>
  <span>As an only child, John knows that he’s never going to understand </span>
  <span>why the heck that makes Dave snarl, his face finally cracking. He flickers out of sight, and back in, and he’s got a sword right in his hand, and oh fuck, </span>
  <em>Dirk-</em>
</p><p>No.</p><p>Dirk’s smiling, ever so slightly. Faint, but smug.</p><p>John is itching to step in, to grab Dirk again and pull him away and protect him (and that’s dumb, too, Dirk’s never needed his protection, but that doesn’t stop his mind from catching on all those awful implications and painting a picture he really, really doesn’t like), but he doesn’t.</p><p>Instead, he quietly makes his way to the door, his eyes trained on the two of them.</p><p>He’d be next to useless in a fight like this, he knows; his hammer’s good against a sword, but the space is too cramped, and John’s good with hand to hand, but it’s kind of a knife to a gun fight scenario. And there is no way in hell he’s going to <em>shoot</em> at them when they’re moving this fast- he can’t hit Dirk.</p><p>But he can’t make himself leave, either. Not without Dirk there.</p><p>His heart is in his throat as he watches- Dave’s talking, and Dirk’s talking back, but they’re both getting quieter and quieter as the only sound is metal scraping against that metal, the heavy weight of the broadsword against Dirk’s katana as each blade opens up cuts on the other. Dave, he notices, has more of them. But it just spurs him on; his blood drips bright red onto the carpet, and he doesn’t even care, he just keeps <em>going</em>.</p><p>Later, John will realize just how lucky they were, that he didn’t get caught up in it, that the drive hadn’t been hidden. Later, he’ll stop to wonder if it wasn’t hidden, then what was Dave even doing there?</p><p>But now, he’s focused entirely on Dirk, who weathers this like it’s something he’s faced before. It’s brutal to watch, and John’s reminded viscerally of how dangerous Dave really is, underneath everything. There’s a reason he’s remained where he is, why Betty keeps him around, no matter what Dirk said.</p><p>(He spares a fleeting thought for how good it would’ve been, if Dave was on their side too. How much easier this all might’ve gone, with that kind of strength and focus.)</p><p>Dirk isn’t going to win, he realizes, when he sees the edge of the sword catch Dirk on the arm, and he retreats behind the table, just shoving it right at Dave. He jumps over it with ease, advances, and John needs to <em>move</em>, he takes a half-step towards them, before he sees Dirk smile, again.</p><p>Colder, harsher.</p><p>He looks every bit the Crocker, as he draws one arm back and slams his fist right into Dave’s solar plexus, where the robe still hangs <em>way</em> too loose. Dave makes a sound like a dying animal, all raw pain and fury, doubling over, and Dirk is- well. John’s been on the receiving end of this plenty of times. Dirk disarms him with a kick to his hand and a crunch there- fingers are definitely broken-, and the sword goes spinning to land halfway under the couch.</p><p>And he stands there, victorious, still breathing hard. The point of his katana nestles right in the hollow of his brother’s throat, and John <em>aches</em>.</p><p>John watches him lean down, and whisper something very softly to Dave, he watches Dave’s shoulders stiffen, and he watches Dirk’s free hand drop lower. Draw back, push in. His face is ashen when he stands, but Dave remains kneeling, clutching at his stomach for a long moment. He’s struggling to get to his feet, but Dirk- Dirk doesn’t care, and John’s not looking at Dave, anymore. Like always, he’s looking at Dirk.</p><p>
  <span>And what he sees- isn’t right. Dirk’s </span>
  <span>face is a blank mask, carefully carved. Time seems to slow with each step. His sword and his hand is stained with blood. He’s all edges now, and John wants nothing more than to reach out and talk to him and bring him back to the Dirk he knows, the Dirk he-</span>
</p><p>Their eyes meet, and whatever trance he was under vanishes. It’s just Dirk, now, here, with him.</p><p>
  <span>Behind him, a shadow moves, but John’s not paying attention.</span>
</p><p>John reaches out a hand to touch him; he’s close enough to touch, to tether and take, but that’s not what happens.</p><p>What happens is Dirk’s warm, still-wet hand presses against his chest instead. John wonders if he can feel the way his heart is hammering in there. He opens his mouth, intent on saying- well, he doesn’t know what, but he should say something, right?</p><p>He doesn’t get the chance.</p><p>“Go,” Dirk whispers, and shoves him out the door. The moment shatters around them, reality rushes right back in. John goes, Dirk’s blood-slick hand clutched tight in his own. Dave’s scream follows them out and fills the scant seconds between them leaving and a sword pushing right through the wood, splintering it.</p><p>They have to take the long way home.</p>
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